 
Escape Melvindale: a collection of short stories

by Zachariah Bennet Douglas

copyright 2018 Zachariah Bennet Douglas

smashwords edition

Table of Contents

0- Introduction

1- The Hurting Ground

2- Idealizing The More Intelligent

3- Fast Food Human Quality Standards

4- The Fate Of Acerbic Nick

5- With Guns To Our Heads...

6- Orangel

7- That Kid By The Railroad Tracks

8- Paranoia = Hilarious

9- The Wizard & The Sultan

10- For The American Factory Worker

11- Dennis Danceran & Ezekial VonHozzenmeit

12- White Supremacy Island

13- Fellwyn

14- S.U.I.D.

15- Criminally Negligent President

16- Nan: Exile

17- Religious Symbolism Not To Be Taken Seriously

18- Dartanius

0 Introduction

These stories are from 2012 to 2017.

I have titled this collection Escape Melvindale for a few reasons. I grew up in Melvindale, Michigan. A lot of writers have issues with their hometowns. I'm no different. Melvindale seems like an existential prison to me, at times. I've never really felt at-one with the Melvindale mindset. Over the years, I've lived elsewhere but I keep getting pulled back here.

It sounds cliché, but writing is one way I escape the banality and rigmarole of life. Yet, I am compelled to live a starving-artist kind of life. While all my old classmates and friends have moved onto careers and families, I'm still hung up on being an artist. Sadly, I've lost a lot of friends along the way because I just can't wrap my head around why someone would give up on music or whatever for a career and a kid. I've had tons of arguments and watched a lot of bridges burn, so to speak. I've been an asshole because I felt like falling in line with everyone else was antithetical to humanity's purpose.

I find it super hard to explain why I am the way I am to people. Most folk don't have the time and I can get really philosophical really quick while in conversation. It's like: You know how you can know someone but know that they aren't gonna be your best friend ever? They are cool, but you assume that what they're looking for will be found in someone else...but you're fine with just being friends on social media or seeing once or twice a year. I was never cool with that level of friendship from others because I've yet to find someone to connect with on a super-deep level. On many occasions I simply told people to fuck off because they just weren't enough. I needed something more and anything less was superfluous.

This collection is an apology to all those people. It's the hope that they read this and go: "Oh, that's why he was like that." And yeah, they may never read this book. They may always think of me as an asshole and I guess I gotta be okay with that. I gotta allow people to believe whatever they need to. Oh well.

If my calculations are correct, I only mention Melvindale once in this book. I wasn't even living in Melvindale until 2016...and most of the stories in this book are from before I moved back. But, Melvindale is an inescapable part of me. Plus, being a starving artist, I find myself often crashing at my parents' house...where it seems a few weeks can turn into a few months quickly. Seasons and years pass. I've walked down every street in Melvindale as an adult. I can feel how the east side is more like Detroit where the west side is more like Allen Park. There's something about seeing my old high school on a regular basis when I'd like to never step foot in this city ever again.

Life just has this way of beating the shit out of some people. I try not to bitch and complain, but calling this book Escape Melvindale is me taunting myself. Like: "Go ahead...try to get out...I bet you can't!" I recently wrote a song and some of the lyrics are:  
'Burn bridges in the hopes of never going backwards

I won't get stuck in my hometown again

If everyone hates me, then Melvindale will reject me

But I'm wrong about everything most of the time

So I'm stuck in my hometown...'

And it's true...here I am in my parents' house, unemployed, putting all my hope into yet another book when I have no fanbase. Optimists would tell me something inspirational, but as I look out the window and see the same tree I've looked at since I was a kid, I can't help but feel really neutral about everything.

So yeah, these stories may not be about Melvindale, but they are at the same time. They are the extensions of my creativity that got me called weird and bullied in grade school. They are the thoughts that creep people out which lead them to rejecting me. It's the confusion. It's nothing and everything else. It's hilarity and reasons to think.

July 2018

1 The Hurting Ground

Jack fell to the floor. Shards of reality split outward and he looked into the eyes of Raquela. She frowned. Both knew that he was going to die. No one lives from a fall.

Jack: I need to tell you something before I can't.

Raquela: Well, don't waste time.

Jack: I could never keep up with technology or being politically correct.

Raquela: No on can. That's why...

She stopped for Jack had died. A single tear pooled from her left eye. She was quick enough to capture it in a vial. The wind blew outside. The snow was drifting. The river looked frozen from where she stood. Everyone knew it wasn't entirely frozen, tho. By "everyone" I mean everyone in the tribe. Their numbers had diminished over the last month or so. Jack was just one of 7 to die this week...and was Saturday. Raquela's cell phone rang.

Raquela: This better be good.

Edmond: Did Jack just die? I felt a disturbance.

Raquela: Yeah. I am getting ready to send him in the river.

Edmond: Are you sure you are powerful enough?

Raquela: Quit overarching, brother. I haven't cast a spell in days.

Edmond: I'm just looking out for you. We're dropping like flies.

Raquela: I can take care of myself.

Or so she thought. After sending Jack in the river, she tripped over a chair and fell to her death. Edmond was quite upset. He went to his crystal ball and summoned Slyminia.

Slyminia: What is it, Edmond?

Edmond: We need your protection.

Slyminia: No. Ask Bizbleb.

Edmond: He won't help. Ever since I stole his bike...

Slyminia: ...how about this: You bring me a box of chocolates and I'll fix everything.

Edmond: Everything? Even the Hurting Ground??

Slyminia: Yeah.

Of course, Slyminia's tower was on the other side of the country and Edmond only had a shitty mountain bike with a warped back wheel. The journey took months. Edmond showed up looking emaciated. Slyminia took her chocolates, pushed Edmond over her garden fence and onto the ground...she laughed.

Slyminia: You dumb motherfucker! No one trusts me...for a good reason.

Edmond: You cunt!

[He dies]

She was a cunt, too. So evil that even the Satanists left her alone. Why Edmond trusted her is beyond rationality. Some say that he got what was coming to him. Not that Slyminia didn't get a fatal karmic slap in the face in the end. Magick dogs ate her throat, they did. The dogs then transmogrified into fireless dragons and few to an amusement park. They then shifted to human form and rode rides for 3 or 4 days.

On the last day, a hologram of a barber met with the dogs (in human form) and convinced them to be obedient pets to the Flemlong tribe.

Ages passed. Eventually, cell phones became obsolete and all the magickal creatures that Science scared away came back to the Being Realms and eliminated the human race. No one was happier than Jack's ghost. His spirit wouldn't cross over into the next plain. He was just that pissed at humanity for constantly redefining political correctness. He forgave people for technological flux but being p.c. always confounded him.

Jack's ghost: Now with humanity gone, I can can be at peace.

Unlucky for him, crossing over meant going back in time and living his life again and again...each time a bit less autonomous-feeling. After he lived 37 of the exact same lives, he was approached by the demon Klilex.

Klilex: Jack!

Jack's ghost: Who are you?

Klilex: I am Klilex. I can save you from this living repetition. Are you game?

Jack's ghost: Yes.

Oh, slang...see, Jack thought "game" meant willing to comply. What Klilex meant was: "Are you huntable?" Klilex shot Jack's ghost with a ghost gun and it hurt him a whole lot. So much, in fact, that it erased all of existence. What was left? Just history. Too bad there's no one to learn about or from it.

-The End

2 Idealizing the More Intelligent

"What we must understand is that the US government can't think for us. In all of their aged wisdom they remain of a lesser caliber of intelligence. Laypeople can be spoken for because their wildest imaginations are limited...think of a portrait artist drawing for those that can only draw stick figures. Now think of sending a portrait artist to replace a top of the line camera."

He called himself Equiriel. I met him at college. I was in my junior year and still felt confused as to what my future would become. I hated my major. All my classmates were too whimsical...teachers were too grounded in theory. Equiriel sat at a table alone looking occupied and unobtrusive.

Campus was full of unassertive people. For my entire freshman year, no one talked to me unless I started the conversation. Truth be told: I've always been socially awkward and shy. I thought college would change me. It wasn't until Equiriel said hello that I realized most people are just stupid assholes.

"The US government is full of corruptible people. They hate free-thinkers. The only kind of intelligence they don't condemn is the type that adapts well into their ideals. If you can't see a detrimental flaw in Capitalism, then your opinions will be rewarded and canonized. Yet, if you come from a stigmatized walk of life and have the tenacity and will to think objectively abstract, then you will be a social pariah. To know that negativity is to be alone...to be isolated. It's not that the US government wants this for you, no. The powers that be don't fucking care about you as long as you live in enough poverty and despair to never influence anyone but your close group of friends."

After talking to Equiriel for ten minutes, I realized why college was a bad idea. Don't get me wrong...he wasn't one of those weird-ass cult leader types. He just had the kind of thinking that instantaneously made me doubt the validity of everything.

20 minutes later, I invited him outside to smoke a joint with me. I've grown weary of those that don't smoke. Being friends with people that don't enjoy marijuana is superfluous. I mean: If you don't enjoy life, what do you do with it?

I was stoked to find that Equiriel could handle the high. He quit being preachy...perhaps cuz I quit being open to philosophy. Even so, his disposition and demeanor were just ridiculously more realistic and logical than anyone I had ever met or seen on tv...or whatever.

"There isn't a person here that hasn't told me about how concern for the human race seems to wax and wane. One minute we are crippled by worry and hopelessness. The next minute we are complacent and carefree. The fact remains that the concern always comes back. We gain and lose perspective. Perspective gives us clarity. Yet, clarity leads to confusion. Our superior intellects have created a chasm of empathy in us. Simplicity is just that: Simple. We are complex and our complexities are ridiculed. At what cost? Our sanity. This ought to be a cut and dry world and we are all tired of dualistic thinkers. Life is more than yes or no, this or that! Simplistic stupidity brings us to complexity...but we've become the dogs taken out to the country to play catch only to return the tennis ball to a cloud of dust left by our masters high-tailing it out of there."

One of the first things that Equiriel ever told me was to not follow him. He said he'd come across a lot weak-minded people looking for anything to latch onto. The greatest tragedy of his life was that he didn't want to think so abstractly. It's a burden. Stupid people are happy because ignorance is a blissful thing. Bliss feels good. Never-ending cynicism brought on by seeing the bigger picture doesn't feel good.

Equiriel was always single. In his life he found only one woman that fueled his mind but she died...tragically of brain cancer. He told me that she made everything else not matter. After she died, everything else did matter. Everything mattered too much and no amount of therapy or meds seemed to help.

"Here we stand, the social outcasts forced to wonder what, if anything, we've done wrong. Driven mad by our own idiosyncrasies and the way laypeople are conditioned to be nothing but apprehensive and leery of said idiosyncrasies...people that have limited abilities to accept everyone for who they are...so we pretend to be something more usual and digestible. Yet, to our own selves we are being unfair. We are no longer idiot teenagers worried of conformity! We are the world's future suppressed. We are reason rationalized away."

I don't know exactly when it turned into something bigger than Equiriel. It started out with a few parties...normal college-type parties. Sometimes he'd go on a rant and people would listen, but most nights it was just drinking, smoking, and jovial times.

A few of his rants were captured on cell phone video cameras and uploaded onto the internet. The thing was: They were just Equiriel...a blast of forgotten common sense. If people thought more than nothing of it, no one else knew.

It may have started with his first book. During a party one night, while he was passed out wasted, someone stole 5 of his journals. Later, Equiriel told me that 80% of those journals were too personal to be of any use. Bitchings about his life and family and whatnot. Yet, I guess the other 20% was worthy of recognition because a few weeks later no less than 1000 copies were given to random people on various campuses across the state.

"We don't own our thoughts. You can't hold a thought. You can't even contain a thought. All we can do with thoughts is let them come and go. It is rumored that one of you published my journals, but who am I to tell you to value things less than I do? I am no leader. I am no messiah. I never asked for nor wanted any of this."

The fucked up thing was that the more he rejected it all, the more it snowballed. He seemed very noble. He wasn't a swindling liar. By the end, he was just so upset that it was out of his control that , eventho it pains me, it doesn't surprise me that he took his life.

"I speak to you because you ask me to. Ideas are meant to be shared. Rhetoric is there to influence. Nothing is worse than a human who honestly believes they deserve to rule. We are plagued by too many people that despise peace, synergy, and homogeny...intellectuals that have rationalized greed and logically defend selfishness. To be the better person is no longer enough, but to fight an adversary is just that: Fighting. We must reject all violent thoughts. We need to think beyond either/or and let all the fucked up shit mend itself. We've become the child that wakes from a nightmare in a hypnopompic fugue...still fighting the imaginary adversary from the nightmare until a parent comes in to give us perspective. Our only concern should be creating that perspective...one that no one would ever disagree with."

The crowds gathered.

It started with an invite from a party guest. The woman had a band that was throwing a show at some hall. They asked him to speak for a few minutes before they took the stage. After that night, Equiriel had a fanbase.

Within a few months, he was speaking at a few gigs a week. Initially, he didn't even want to get paid. Free admission and beer was enough. Then the corporation he worked for caught wind of what he was doing and he got shit-canned. He started accepting the money cuz he needed to eat. Then one day we were sitting at his place smoking some hash and he got a check in the mail. Royalties for his unauthorized book. It was a hefty check. The whole thing seemed fantastically ridiculous...and not just cuz we were higher than hot air balloons.

"I'll never understand why some people can work so hard and get nowhere while I can have my journals stolen and wind up rich. Justice is a 4-letter word. Surely, I don't deserve to be poor while anyone else deserves to be rich...but now that the tables have turned, I can't help but despise myself. Wealth hasn't changed me but it's changed how strangers perceive me. Fame is a disaster, my friends. My only hope has always been to merely help change the world for the better. I always despised the way laypeople envied the rich and famous. Now they look at me that way."

As quickly as the money came in, he put it back out. He started a record label and signed the bands that helped him out in the beginning. He published countless books for underground writers. Yet, he never let it become an empire. He gave his parents some money and spent the rest on other people. He never had pockets full of cash. He remained modest until the very end.

"My advice to you all is to always be exactly what you are. Don't worry about who or what you'll become in the next phase of your life. There's a difference between being forward-thinking and being strung-out on the future. We must think of ourselves as the children we used to be. Go home, find a picture of yourself as a toddler, and always be that person...the you before you knew anything that truly upset you."

A few weeks before Equiriel died, he told me that he no longer felt at one with humanity as he used to. He had started out a revolutionary idealist and wound up analogous to an advice columnist.

"You stand here today fans of a book...a book not meant for you to read. A book misconstrued. A book that spoke to a forgotten minority of people and became some sort of tragic paragon. A book that worked its magick incorrectly because it influenced you to follow me...as if I am worthy of such influence over humanity. No one is. No one is..."

His final words were more of a shock than was his public suicide right after saying those words. All in all, Equiriel's last words were the most true-to-himself ones he had spoken in years.

Maybe we can't have cake and eat it too. To want to be something and to actually be something are quite different. If in the end anyone gained anything from Equiriel's teachings, I hope that it's that his teachings should have been ignored. In my heart of hearts, I think he'd have killed himself regardless of fame.

At least I got to smoke with him.

-The End

3 Fast Food Human Quality Standards

Janette looked out into the lobby of her fast food job. A few people chowed-down on their meals. One guy sat in the corner waiting for her. She was to interview him for a job.

She went thru the interview procedure handed down from Corporate...all corporations have the same inquiries:

-Tell us about a time when you were working in a group and you had to take charge.

-Tell us about a time you had a conflict with a coworker and how you resolved it.

The list goes on.

The guy, Joe, did very well on the questions. He had tons of experience and averaged a 3.5 in college. Janette wondered why he would want to work for a fast food joint, but then again, upper management did make decent money.

The interview was almost over and she informed Joe that he would have to wear long sleeve shirts to cover his tattoos and he would have to take out all his piercings. He did not take this well. In fact, Joe pretty much flipped out. He told her that he wouldn't compromise at all. He had the audacity to say: "You want me to cover my tattoos because this company hates colored people." Which seemed preposterous to her...to act like it's the same as being racist...what nerve!

Joe aggravatedly explained to her that he can't leave his piercings out for 8.5 hours a day, 5 days a week. "It's not healthy!" he cried. Janette politely told him that she didn't make the rules...Corporate makes them.

Joe cut her off mid-sentence and told her that Nazi soldiers obeyed ridiculous orders too.

Stifled, Janette tried to resolve the conflict but Joe was completely incorrigible. He made a scene as he stormed out.

A concerned customer asked what was wrong. Janette explained the situation, figuring it was fine to say something since Joe had made such a loud fuss about it anyway. The customer said: "Good. Tattoos are disgusting and piercings just make me cringe. If God would have wanted people to look like that and have holes all over, He would have made us that way." Then, the customer's husband added: "Yes, you are right, honey. The body is a temple and to mark it up is a sin."

Janette felt overwhelmed. She had 2 tattoos. They were on her shoulders...she didn't want to have tattoos on her forearms. It just wasn't her thing. Her husband had a big cross on his left forearm. She wasn't prejudice...but Joe's vehemence really upset her. Was it really analogous to racism...the way corporations opine body modifications? It is weird how the rules against body mods are made by people without them...or those with a few that are willing to sacrifice civil liberties for cash.

Surely, it's wrong for a White person to tell a Black person how to value Black culture, but race is different than elective modifications. Yet, it's true that many people with mods are born into families with member who have tattoos and "extreme" piercings. Also, the modded subculture is quite vast. Millions upon millions of people with "visible" mods. Was it corrupt to discriminate?

Janette's boss, Roderick, asked her what had transpired. He had heard the tail end of the conversation but Joe ws gone before he made his way to the counter. She explained the situation. Roderick told her that Joe was way out of line. "It's one thing to be upset but to make such a scene was very inappropriate. Stereotyping is wrong, but it seems that people that wear tattoos like that and have excessive piercings are volatile...unstable," he explained.

Roderick was an older guy that didn't have tattoos. He had his ear pierced when he was younger but his father threatened to disown him if he didn't take it out. "Girls get their ears pierced, not boys!" he had angrily barked. So, Roderick is of that mindset...one of gender roles/stratification and concrete thinking.

"Also, there's a lot of truth in the stereotype that modified people are criminals and drug addicts. Anyone that would come unglued like that is either on drugs or has some mental health issue. We don't need that here," Roderick said.

Seeing that Janette was still quite shaken, he told her to take a 15 minute break to clear her head.

She went out to her car and turn on some music. Should she have been offended by Roderick's remarks? She had tattoos. Even if she wasn't an extremist, she was still part of the ever-growing body mod culture. Just because television unfairly portrayed modded people as criminals and reality tv star idiots didn't mean people deserve to be denied jobs just because of the way they look. What would the blind have to say about it? Is society really that ashamed of modded people that it's best to keep them censored or hidden away in factories? Not everyone has the artistic talent to work as a tattooist. Surely, it takes a certain type of person to stomach being a piercer. Surgeons and nurses deal with a lot of gross, unsettling things...yet, society doesn't extend the same courtesy to piercers? And, corporations go on about their right to have a definite dress code...but they don't care if modded people buy their products. Why is it fair that there are laws in place protecting the rights of some minorities but not the body mod culture? Is it right to disallow mods just because a few customers are offset by mods? The body mod culture has to deal with tough-love but religious kooks don't?

Janette looked at the clock and only 1 minute had passed. Her mind was racing. She looked in the rearview mirror and seen 3 tears coming down her face. She took a deep breath and pushed the mirror askew...no longer able to see her reflection but she noticed her hands were shaking.

She opened up her glove box and pulled out her pipe. The plan had been to smoke it at the end of her shift with her friend/coworker Alyssa but she couldn't think of any other way to calm down. She hit the bowl a few times. It calmed her down. She realized that Joe's issues were his own. If he wanted to change the world, so be it...that's his burden.

When she went back into work, Roderick showed concern.

"Are you okay, Janette?"

Yeah.

"You look upset."

I cried a little.  
"Would you like me to call the guy? I'll be happy to give him a what-for."

No, it's okay.

Janette then chuckled a little. The marijuana was making the absurdity of it all wash over her. She was stuck between siding with 2 irrational people.

"Are you high?"

No.

"I thought I smelled weed."

I'm not...high.

"Then submit to a drug test."

What?!

"Yeah. Drive up to the clinic and get tested...or I'll fire you."

At that point, she realized that Joe was right. She was a sell-out. She worked for a moronic, close-minded corporation that didn't care about people...only money.

Janette exclaimed: "Fuck you, Roderick! 75% of the people that work here smoke. That's how the restaurant industry is...you dumb, prejudice fuck!"

Roderick looked horrified.

Janette left without clocking out and never looked back.

-The End

4 The Fate of Acerbic Nick

Gross Uma was the bitchiest woman in the land...if you were a bitch to her. Other than that, she was cool. Just don't tread onto her land and not announce yourself. If you try to pass thru her land...even if it's just a mere corner of her land...she'll hear it. The reason she's out there away from civilization is that her hearing is real sensitive-like. When she was a kid, the sound from the neighbors coming home in the evening made her flip out like an autistic.

Acerbic Nick walked on her land one day while hiking. She came out to greet him. She was in a good mood. The conversation started fine. By the end, he wouldn't agree to stay off her land. He was not nice. Why? She did not know. But, even after telling him about her sensitive hearing, Acerbic Nick screamed at her.

(She spent 8 days in tinnitus overload. Lots of showers, loud tv, and white noise. Living alone like she does, the quiet plus tinnitus made her paranoid. All those psychological thrillers and horror flicks ruined her mind, see. And the loudness makes her mind kinda turn off. She breaks things. Her meltdowns are legendary. It made her so depressed...the pain did...that she was thinking of offing herself. By day 6, she was okay-enough...but there was a point between days 3 and 4 that she almost called for an ambulance.)

Acerbic Nick said he'd come back whenever the fuck he likes. She knew he was boasting a truth but was unlikely to return without reason. She ran home. Made a potion. Put it in a spray bottle. Chased him down. Tackled him. Sprayed in his face the potion. Looked him deep in the eye and tried to tacitly convey the hell she was headed for.

She knew she wouldn't be there to see the spell unfold. It might take weeks for it to cause the Starken Nightmare.

The spell works only if the man gets turned on. (Women can't do it on gay men.) The only other stipulation is that the man has to have a one-that-got-away. The sexual attraction to the witch causes the man to care emotionally, if only a little. But, Acerbic Nick was infatuated with her, yes...yes he was. He was. She knew this . That's why at the end of the Starken Stare, she seductively grabbed his dick. Caressing for a moment.

He was confused, turned on, and horrified all at the same time. Then the potion started to put him asleep. A good 90 seconds went by before he passed out. It was a slow, paralyzing descent. He heard every word, tho. The incantation...the rant about respect...the closing incantation. By the end, he was in a psychedelic torture spin. He didn't know if he was going to live or die.

But Acerbic Nick woke up. There in the Forest of Negmar. All in all, he felt okay. No nausea. Not even all that freaked out. Mostly, he wanted to get back home and drink a few beers in the hot tub. He had money...owned houses in Gegano and Parriksburg. He lucked out. Only child from a wealthy-enough family...they never went without quality food, love, and health care. They knew not debt, drug addiction, and emotional scars. They ain't super-rich, tho. Just well-off...if you catch my drift.

Plus, Acerbic Nick was a dickhead. He was a mean, cruel monster of a jerk at times and never mentioned in an apologetic tone. So maybe he got what was coming to him.

Two weeks later, Acerbic Nick had a dream about the girl he loved in high school but never mustered the courage to tell his feelings to. In the dream...the Starken Nightmare...she and he were in love. At the end of the dream, she told him to show up to lunch the next day 'looking hot'. He woke up feeling the pangs of emptiness. The feeling grew thru-out the day. 9pm rolled around and he killed himself.

Gross Uma sat on her porch. A cool wind buffeted her face. She knew at that moment that Acerbic Nick had received the Starken Nightmare. She did not know that he would end up committing suicide, but his demise was none of her concern. Once again, she was at peace in what was left of silence since tinnitus found her.

-The End

5 With Guns to Our Heads...

Leroy: Look what the cat dragged in...the motherfucker that blames everyone for everything. What a schmuck.

Me: I am no schmuck. Or am I? I don't know what that word means. Perhaps I should.

Leroy: But you ought not! If you knew, you couldn't be one and I'd have no one to laugh at.

Me: You are a card.

Leroy: So, in this situation I am a greeting card?

Me: Rightly so. Rightly so.

We tried to keep up the small talk but talking small is not what big men do.

Leroy: Did you get the plutonium?

Me: I sure did.

The night went on, we built a bomb, and then I fucked his wife. I had to...with a gun to my head, I had to. After it was done:

Leroy: What say you of the return of Daniel? Should he have stayed in exile?

Me: His kindness was all-too confusing. It's hard to trust those that don't seem in the least-bit evil.

Leroy: I agree. Those that don't do wrong are bound to doing great wrong. It was only a matter of time before he was to lose his marbles. But, it's his return that bothers me.

Me: I too. Why is he back? Surely, the wisdom he gained from living with the whore is intriguing, but is it truly worth it...to risk so much?

Leroy: Our hearts close and should remain closed.

That night, we killed Daniel. We had to...with guns to our heads, we had to.

Me: Since God exists, our fates are already laid out. Life is surprising to live, but all I can do is in God's will.

Leroy: Goodbye, Daniel.

Me: Goodbye, Daniel.

I killed Leroy with the same sword that took Daniel's left arm off. With a gun to my head, I had to.

Maybelle: Finally, that fucker is dead.

Me: I would have hoped a wife would have a little bit more compassion.

Maybelle: Well, I don't. We all knew it was coming. Either him or you.

Me: He or I. The truth is you don't lie. Try as you might, you have not lied.

And so began the lengthiest poetic discussion of my life. I forgot it all after I killed her...with a gun to my head, I had to.

I showed up on the porch of Zekiel 3 days later with her head in my backpack. It was the dead of winter. Her head didn't even smell. Zekiel gave me an 8 string guitar and I used it to start a Metal band. The band got signed to an indie label and I used my signing bonus to buy a lot of pot. It's all I really wanted. We toured the country and after about 9 years, I cut my left hand off...with a gun to my head, I had to. After that, the guitar was useless to me. I showed up at Zekiel's.

Zekiel: My dear boy...your hand!

Me: I cut it off. I had to...with a gun to my head, I had to.

Zekiel: I always knew you would. Music meant way too much to you. You were tortured by it.

Me: I proved my point. There was nothing left to pursue. I had no anxiety, but not dreams also. Conquer what? I sat upon the throne of musical gods. I graced every magazine cover.

Zekiel: So what now?

Me: Now I give you your guitar back.

Zekiel: What do you need now?

Me: Billions of dollars.

Zekiel: To obtain what?

Me: There is a club...a billionaire's club. I want to be part of it. I just want to rub shoulders with those that only rub shoulders with billionaires.

Zekiel: I shall not say no to you.

He gave me the money and I joined the club. It was a grand time. We talked of the world's problems we could solve. We wondered if we caused the problems, but then we decided to be stingy fuckers.

Don't worry your poor soul, tho. I killed them all...with a gun to my head, I had to. I stole their money away and donated it to researchers. I paid them to figure out why pretty women are so apt to treat infatuated men like perverts and creeps. They couldn't figure out why so I killed them...with a gun to my head, I had to. It dawned on me that trying to make humanity better was absolutely futile. I gave Zekiel back his money. He died 3 days later.

My mother didn't call me on my birthday. Then again, she never calls me. For many years I thought it was because I was a disappointment. It wasn't. She just never figured out how to be an ideal mother. I forgave her but Dad couldn't.

After Mother died, Hell froze over. Satan sent me a text message informing me that Leroy was cussing me out as he was being tortured. Apparently, I was the only human he, Leroy, shouldn't have trusted. Maybelle was in Heaven. I replied that it's fine...Atheists aren't allowed in Hell. Satan sent back an LoL.

What happened to make me an Atheist? At some point I realized that I ruined my chances at Heaven. I am too selfish. I'm not one to put up with torture. Everyone knows that Satan only tortures the faithful because what truly terrifies some people is its reputation. There's no fun in bothering people that don't give a shit about the things you've done.

Later on in my life, I sent an email to an old friend who ignored me completely.

Even later in life, I apologized for everything but no one was around to hear.

The very next day, I went back to my hometown. Everything was similar. Different people, but all else was similar. Exclusivity reigned supreme. Yet, that's just how my hometown is: Getting in-the-loop is basically impossible. Everyone is so busy that even when they aren't busy, they think like they're busy.

"I'll get to you eventually"

So, you wait around. You don't go anywhere. You end up surrounded by people that aren't going anywhere...both literally and symbolically. Things don't change in my hometown. Even the people that leave take the mindset with them.

Perhaps you can do something to change the way people receive you, but it doesn't change the fact that the way people opine humanity is wholly fucked. Pointing it out to them is futile...they know this. It's why most bars are full of drunk idiots.

Our sorrows are our realities and we drink our sorrows away. To look at the youth is to see people that will eventually become habitual drinkers or persistent abstainers that refuse to believe their shit stinks. They don't think farting is inappropriate.

We live in a land where cleanliness is OCD and sophistication is taboo.

-The End

6 Orangel

-Chapter 1

Arlek woke with a panicked start and jostled his wife awake. She found her husband breathing erratically, in tears, and sweating profusely.

Marybeth: Arlek...what's the matter?

Arlek: Nightmare...I...you...

Marybeth: ...it's okay. It was just a dream. I'm here.

Arlek: All was...different...so very different...

Marybeth: ...babe, calm down.

She hugged him. After a few moments, he seemed composed.

Marybeth: Tell me about the dream.

Arlek: Things were different but the same...we lived in a house...you were a librarian...I had a successful band...fans, tours, merch...we weren't in debt...your father liked me...you didn't have asthma...we had gone on a vacation, just you and I...somewhere in the mountains...camping, we were camping...we took walks and sat by the lake...I played mandolin by the fire...

Marybeth: ...that sounds lovely. What happened next?

Arlek: Nothing...just no stress and fun...it seemed to last forever...I have never seen you so happy...I've never felt so carefree...it was like we were a couple from tv or something...

Marybeth thought about the life they shared. It was full of love, sure, but they struggled financially. Both were in debt. They barely made the bills each month. Their apartment wasn't much. Arlek couldn't afford the gear to start a band. She hadn't bought a new outfit in months. They hadn't gone out to dinner in forever. They lived in the hood. No medical insurance. Her asthma kept her mostly inactive...so she read a lot. She wasn't crippled, but exertional activities were mostly off the table.

But they had hope...hope for a better future. Things would turn around. She knew it.

Arlek: ...everything was perfect, Marybeth. Perfect. Nothing extravagant, but life had nothing sad about it. It was him. He did this to me.

Marybeth: Who.

Arlek: He told me this would happen...

With that, Arlek fell over dead.

\-------

Paramedics showed up quick enough but it was too late. Arlek's heart simply gave out. They told Marybeth that even with Arlek only being in his mid 30s, fatal heart attacks were common enough, unfortunately. 2 detectives showed up. They took a statement from her.

Detective #1: So your husband woke up from a nightmare, told you about it, and then died?

Marybeth: Yeah.

Detective #1: I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.

Detective #2: Me too. It's a tragedy.

Marybeth: Thanks.

Detective #1: Do you know if he ate anything that could have exacerbated any sort of allergy or caused some other sort of physical distress?

Marybeth: No. Our food budget is tight, so our diet is pretty stable, consistent.

Detective #2: You mentioned that someone told your husband that this would happen.

Marybeth: Yeah...when he came home last night, he was kinda freaked out...said that some strange man stopped him on the sidewalk outside of his work...told him that life is a shattering delusion.

Detective #2: A 'shattering delusion'?

Marybeth: Yeah. He was a kook, Arlek said. Looked like a vagrant. Wild-eyed. Spoke mystically.

Detective #1: Did Arlek say what he looked like?

Marybeth: An older White guy. Heavy set. Arlek said he looked normal enough but wore too much spray tan.

Detective #1: Spray tan?

Marybeth: Yeah. The guy was basically orange in the face.

Detective #1: Did he get his name?

Marybeth: No. Apparently, the guy just talked a bunch of whack shit...sorry about my language.

Detective #2: It's fine. We hear all sorts of foul talk. Go on.

Marybeth: The guy talked about planet alignment and diffusional energies.

Detective #1: 'Diffusional energies'? Good God.

Marybeth: Arlek only paraphrased. As shook up as he was, you kinda get used to crazies around here. You learn to laugh them off.

Detective #2: Unfortunately, that's true. So this guy threatened your husband?

Marybeth: Yes. After he said a bunch of weird shit, he ended with:

'A day will come

when the sun will rise

and the bitter life

will be your demise.'

Arlek remembered the poem because the guy said it 3 times.

Detective #1: Jesus Christ.

Detective #2: So it was almost like he cursed Arlek?

Marybeth: I guess. I mean: I've watched enough scary movies to recognize a curse...but, you know, in reality they don't hold water, so to speak.

Detective #2: Some people hold bizarre beliefs.

Marybeth: I guess so.

Detective #1: Did your husband say if the man touched him at all?

Marybeth: Arlek said he wouldn't let the guy get near him. Said he reeked of urine and spray tan.

Detective #1: So there's no chance he poked your husband with a needle or rubbed anything onto his skin?

Marybeth: Like I said, the guy didn't get that close to Arlek...said he could barely stand the stench from 5ft away, outside.

Detective #2: Is there anything else? Did Arlek say where the vagrant left to?

Marybeth: Not really. He said the guy just kinda walked away toward the river...but, you know, that's not to say he didn't turn a corner and end up further Downtown.

Detective #2: Right.

Detective #1: Well, if you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call us. This is my card. Once again, my condolences.

Detective #2: Yeah...it truly is a tragedy.

Marybeth: Thank you, both.

-Chapter 2

Jamal left the club high enough to drive home safely wrapped in a cocoon of music. He had danced with a few fine ladies, but some nights all you get is a dance or two. It mattered not. He wasn't one of those cry-baby emos. He had a few grams at home. There was at least a bowl in his grinder already. He went out most Saturday nights. Church services didn't start til 11am. It wasn't even 2am yet. He had to park a couple blocks away, but he had known these streets all his life. Beyond that, he had a gun on him. Not that shit ever came to that...leastways not anymore.

His boys had parked the other way, so he would make the walk alone, but at 1:30am in the city, it's not like the sidewalks are empty. There was a bar on the corner...people outside smoking. Saturday nights were alive until about 2:30am. That liveliness is what kept Jamal on the level. Life is stressful, we all know that much. One night out on the town a week may not be the best, but we appreciate the blessings given to us, don't we?

He turned the corner and seen that his car was still where he parked it. Yeah, the hood has changed but scandalous motherfuckers still exist. There's a sense of comfort gained from not seeing tragedy. He was a few houses away from his car...

Stranger: Hey friend. Got a square I can bum?

Jamal: Naw. Don't smoke.

Stranger: Your eyes tell truths, your tongue tells lies.

Jamal: Look, I don't have a cigarette for you.

Stranger: Nicotine, king of things, may make my dreams a bit nicer...for I am a lifer, you know?

Jamal: Okay. Well, have a good night, man.

Stranger: Don't leave so quickly. I can tell you're tipsy. Isn't it moments like these when shooting the breeze frees even the freest minds? Do you fear to find the likeness of you in me??

Jamal: Man, you crazy.

Stranger: Perhaps I might be, but I mean you no harm. Don't be alarmed. Don't be concerned. Just sharing words is enough for an old man like me. So a greeting to you from me I give to thee. I am Orangel, the orange angel.

Jamal: I thought your face looked strange.

Orangel: My face is strange for I face the strange. Not saying you are strange but life is a strange game, wouldn't you say?

Jamal: Sometimes.

Orangel: It is strange that we live in such ways where days pass and too many we know find early graves. But the Good Lord saves and says: "Jamal will sleep soundly for the rest of his days as long as he prays."

Jamal: How do you know my name?

Orangel: I am Orangel, the orange angel. I know many things.

Jamal: You know what? You need to leave me the fuck alone, crazy ass.

Orangel: I know you don't believe that. I can obviously see that you are concerned with all you've learned and forced to live thru. Your sister an addict, your mother an addict, your dad rots away in a grave. Three friends of yours died long before their time had rationally concluded to end.

Jamal: What the actual fuck?

Orangel: I know you, my son. I know how you know. I know how you struggle to keep head above water. I know the streets beat you and hardened your soul. I know that you have almost nowhere else to go. I know what you hate. I know what you dislike...

Jamal: ...shut up.

Orangel: Jamal shouldn't fret or let it get him down. The planets align on this ghetto-ass town. Jamal shouldn't worry for sleep takes all away in a hurry.

Jamal: I'm warning you...shut up!

Orangel: A day will come when the sun will rise and the bitter life will be your demise. A day will come when the sun will rise and the bitter life will be your demise. A day will come when the sun will rise and the bitter life will be your demise.

With that, Jamal flipped. He pulled his gun and threatened Orangel. Said if he said another word, he'd shoot him. The angel said nothing, turned around seemingly fearless, and calmly walked away.

Jamal, on the other hand, was frazzled and shaking. He had never pulled his gun on anyone. A couple times he took it out for protection...but it was always an indirect threat...like when his neighbor's house got shot up or when his boy Randall showed up at his place one night seeking refuge from some bangers that were looking for him. Jamal knew he was one of the lucky ones. It never came to the point of a gun fueled altercation. A few fights, sure. Seen someone get stabbed once.

He quickly walked to his car, got in, and drove away. Smoked a cigarette in the car. Made it home without incident. Turned a couple bowls to ashes and ultimately ended up laughing off the old man. He fell asleep watching cartoons.

Jamal woke up at 9:30am breathing erratically, sweating, and shaking. He looked around at a reality wholly diminished by a peaceful nightmare and died.

-Chapter 3

Shay looked at her phone not expecting a missed call or text and found that she predicted correctly. She checked her internet personality profiles...no likes. No comments. No messages. Dinner had come and gone. Scrolling thru her contacts, she didn't notice anyone worth texting. Her parents weren't the gabby type, especially not on the phone. (Does anyone really use a phone for gabbing anymore?) There was always Travis, her ex...but that was always a brutal heartstrings experiment cuz he's dating someone new. She wishes she could find a new guy but she's never been the type that can't stay single, so to speak.

Since she and Travis split, she had a couple of flings but they were with people not yet mentally healthy. One guy was an obvious nutcase. The other guy was just plain obese. Shay never considered herself shallow but obesity is gross and negligent. Her ideal man was just a fantasy, this she knew, but she was trying to hold out for someone remotely ideal instead of letting herself get pregnant by the only person around willing to fuck her.

She shut off her phone at 10:13pm. She thought of doing something but there's nothing to do on a Tuesday night passed 9pm. Most stores are closed. She needed to save money, anyway. When she went out earlier, some insane old dude claiming to be an angel harassed her. She took it all with a grain of salt but it kinda punctuated the day. She fought depression for years and eventho she was well out of that murk, some days just left her fizzled out and hoping too much for excitement that is rare to begin with. Shay wondered why it all came to this...this mediocre life. She had wanted to be famous and successful...instead she was a shift supervisor at a department store. The money was okay by dollars-per-hour standards but it wasn't like it put a dent in her debt. It wasn't like she could afford to support a boy-toy.

She missed most concerts because concerts are fucking expensive. Even the local shows call for a $5-10 cover, gas to the venue, merch costs, etc. It's way too easy to spend $50 if you go out and do something beyond coffee or a movie at the dollar show.

The television bore no fruit...just reruns from 10+ years ago. The residual effects of depression had her and she knew it, so she just brushed her teeth and went to bed.

\-------

The next day, Shay felt better. Work went smoothly. On her way home, she stopped at the liquor store for some rum. That's when she met Dennis. He was tall, handsome, tattooed, liked Punk...and not just radio Punk. An actual punker. They hit it off and she opted to not get rum, just a diet/caffeine-free cola. She agreed to meet him later at the local Rock bar.

Drinks were had. There wasn't a live band that night but the jukebox was churning out tolerable music...not an everyday occurrence. They laughed. It ended up that they kinda knew each other as kids. At the end of the night, they made out in the parking lot. Dennis copped a few feels but nothing too sexual. Just tits and ass. She was content with sneaking her hand under his shirt. He stopped her before it got too heavy. They said goodnight and drove to their respective homes.

When Shay got home, she flipped on the news. No political turmoil. No terrorist attacks. No huge scandals. Channel surf for a few minutes. Nothing special, so she turned off the tv and checked the internet. 3 new messages! Whew!! One was a party invite. She quickly texted Dennis...asking if he wanted to go...he said: "Sure."

The next day, Shay found a box of $7 bills. Thousands of dollars. Not only could she pay off a credit card but she could afford that sewing machine she had been eyeing. It was her day off so she went to the craft store and bought it.

After she got it out of the box, she checked thru the paperwork/manuals. Inside an envelope was a card that read: "Turn around, Shay!" When she turned around, she was surprised to see a leprechaun standing on her coffee table.

Leprechaun: Shay! Good to see you!!

Shay: Grizneveld! It's been too long!!

Grizneveld: It has.

Shay: How is Lepland?

Grizneveld: Swell. How is your life?

Shay: On the up and up. I found a box of $7 bills earlier.

Grizneveld: Of all the money, $7 bills taste the best.

Shay: I did not know this.

Grizneveld: Well, go on...try one.

She tasted a $7 bill and, boy, was Grizneveld right. Impossibly delicious...she stuffed her pie-hole.

Shay: These are amazing!

Grizneveld: And they are magic. For every one you eat, two will appear in your refrigerator.

Shay: I'll never go hungry again.

Grizneveld: So, how is Dennis?

Shay: He is wonderful. Just wonderful. He makes me feel like the pitfalls of the past don't matter.

Grizneveld: He's handsome too. I've looked into a parallel dimension and seen the female leprechaun version of Dennis and she is gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that I photographed her, took the photo to Queen Mirlemn, and she has agreed to utilize Science to create an entire plethora of female leprechaun Dennises so that all leprechaun males have one of her.

Shay: That is great!

Grizneveld's cell phone rings. He talks on it for a moment and hangs up.

Grizneveld: Well, Shay, that was Queen Mirlemn. I must be going. Farewell until the next time.

Shay: Goodbye, dearest friend!

Grizneveld: Before I go, I must tell you one thing.

Shay: What is it?

Grizneveld: I looked into your future and Dennis is the one. You'll be married one day. Great joy will find you and you'll never feel poor and alone ever again.

Shay: Wonderful.

Grizneveld: Goodbye.

Shay: Goodbye.

Shay went to bed and her mattress encompassed her being. She woke up to her phone ringing. It was Dennis.

Dennis: Good morning, beautiful.

Shay: Good morning, handsome.

Dennis: I've been up all night...I think I love you.

Shay: I think I love you too.

Dennis: It is settled, then. We will marry on the highest hilltop to a crowd of endless onlookers that all love us.

Shay: Our love will spring eternal and cause world peace.

\-------

Shay woke up from the Dennis dream. She was shaking, sweating, and her heart hurt as it beated erratically. Barely able to breathe, she reached for her phone to call 911. It was powered down. By the time it was fully turned on, she was dead.

-Chapter 4

[Patrick's monologue]

To what end do we need violence? To what end do we need conflict? Lies? Entertainment shouldn't rely upon varying levels of carnage and savagery. For fuck's sake: It's just hockey. The constant fighting is something I'm supposed to think is professional?!

I think not.

Tv shows white lies and simple forms of deception and razzing/hazing people and we are supposed to think it's entertainment?! The president is enraged with and enveloped by controversy...he was supposed to save us from that. Foreign leaders do interviews that we have to wait to see...this is supposed to be important. Fuck the presidency. Not the president, no. The idea that people of other countries should trust only 1 person, 1 administration, 1 political party is ludicrous.

Governments hate one another so we, the denizes, are supposed to hate each other too? Husbandry causes fatherhood to be a session of loyalty and too many men are overworked. Be loyal to something you don't have the time to fully understand?!

America is just land.

Humans are just earthlings that struggle with equating to other earthlings. Where do we draw the line? Are rocks earthlings? Or does earthling imply living? If living, can we assume is has a consciousness? Is consciousness every definition of living?

We like to scare ourselves We watch Horror movies and let the sound crescendos startle us. The startling (S) plus the image of violence (I) plus operant conditioning (O) make us into beings that think of and react to violence in learned ways. Surely, we all react to violence in natural ways, too...but S+I+O is brainwashing.

Think of hockey. Playoff time. As any offensive player approaches the goal with the puck, the commentator crescendos his words. Every missed goal is like a kick in the lungs. Volumes peak. Meanwhile, you are at home trying to relax. Your kid is watching...learning that affect levels should peak A: during hockey, B: frequently, C: with that much energy, and D: [infinity]. Then, the guys start fighting on the ice because they play too aggressively, on purpose. Say anything and alpha males jump down your throat like they were a 1950s dad bashing 1970s Feminism. They don't care that these bearded assholes are fist-fighting for ridiculous salaries, accolades, and support.

I'm sorry, but I refuse to believe that fighting should teach us anything. Sure, shit happens, but these motherfuckers are hitting one another with sticks like staffs and full-on punching each other in the face and too many people refuse to believe this influences us to fight and argue.

Hockey is not a microcosm of existence. It's some fucken bullshit, is what it is. Do they fight because they let out our aggression? Does our frustration fuel them? Does that frustration only flow thru them as frustration? Why are we so pissed that we need to see violence so much? Why were we brought up on it? Why is it normal?

Or, are we just stuck in the traditions of our elders? We're all doing a lot of baseless shit and we act like we don't get to stop because it is tradition. Violence dates back thousands of years. Many say it is our connection to our animal selves. People hunt to connect with a delusion of animal-self. Yet, when I look outside, I see no violence. I notice arguments. Most are minor. I see traffic accidents. I see messes left by smokers.

Seriously, it's gotta be half the litter I see is tobacco related. Then, niggas act like tobacco doesn't really fuck with common decency. The evidence is everywhere and...what percentage of the other litter is from those smoking litterbugs? Not zero, that's for sure. Addicts go into rehab and it's illegal to make them quit tobacco.

If you don't want to be an addict, don't allow yourself one addiction.

Tobacco...we should just legalize it. We act like children are going to do it but the reason kids try smoking is because it's illegal. I know this because I was a kid and every dipshit politician denies the validity of life experiences.

We all grew up into a world where some people smoked regularly, so we believe people will always smoke tobacco regularly. Kids try a cigarette and decide like bratty idiots whether or not it's a lifelong thing for them. But why wouldn't they? They're treated like they should have a career path by 16...16 year olds make many huge decisions...why shouldn't tobacco be something they decide upon also? Forget about current statistics on the decline in tobacco usage. Forget about the generations grown up in a time of the cancer epidemic. If you don't treat children like they're fucking retards, then they smoke that first cigarette knowing it could lead to a fucked up death. The ones that smoke regularly are the ones that assume they'll have a fucked up death.

Why are kids thinking they'll have a fucked up death? Is it all the racism and poverty and hunger they were born into? Is it the news showing the worst side of us? Is it music about violence? Is it seeing first-hand class stratification at school and in the neighborhood and then learning of millionaires and billionaires?...they were only considering the $0 to $75,000/yr households. 75,000/1,000,000,000 is a lot less than 1%. What I'm saying is that when scaled with billionaires, the few lower classes only account for <1%.

Fuck!

We see our families struggle to make ends meet and our parents salaries combined is just a small fraction of what some people collect and let sit in a bank. 16 year old me may have been jealous of some of my friends at the time but what they had was nothing compared to what some have. The prospects for kids are low unless they excel at school. Shitty schools have shitty teachers. Shitty curriculums. Education isn't anyone's forte and students lose interest. Teach well, and kids will learn to like learning.

You can argue that education has gotten better. "Bless the internet! Bless the future that was of then but is now!" But you still treat kids like they shouldn't be able to buy a pack of smokes. Yet, why is it always 20 cigarettes? If we weren't supposed to smoke at least 20 before they go stale, then why only sell a pack of 20?

Fucken idiots!

Presidents always promise great change but it never happens, eventho all they ever promise is no-duh kinda shit. They get elected, walk into congress with their no-duh agendas, and congress is like: "Not no-duh! How dare you point out our past shortcomings!!" Bills languish unpassed. We, society, wait for a time when it's okay for us to change. We hold each other back because we just love to bicker. Bitching is our new 24/7 but don't say anything about it or you'll be labelled a hater.

"Haters" aren't spreading hate at all. A bit of disgust, disapproval, and frustration? Yes...but not hate.

So, society has twisted the definition of hate to their liking yet everyone hates hate. Then, we trick ourselves out of our cognizance of everything. We go out to lunch and look around at all the people. We ponder the limits of small talk and thing of social niceties. How can we be decent people when we know humans aren't decent earthlings? War, terror, misogyny, female sexism, nationalism championed by dotards, hockey fights, the delusion of racial harmony...

...let's face it: Global racial harmony has never happened. History basically proves that once people learn about other people/groups/clans/religions/etc., we just attack. So all ideas on racial harmony are fantasy, prophecy.

Fantasy movies are popular these days but Fantasy is all war. It's an extension of actual war and disharmony fucking with great story tellers. Imagine Fantasy void of conflict. Imagine the places imagination could be taken if war never happened. If we had World Peace, we would fantasize about other utopian societies. The great stories would influence our great ascent thru "just getting along".

Instead, they imagine crazier wars than ever transpired (fact or fiction). Our great point of pride as humans is overcoming adversity. Imagine meeting an alien that spoke your language. Summarizing humanity would just be discussing how we've overcome so many disasters humanity itself caused.

People be like: "The best we can do is to cope with the problems associated with doing the best we can do...which is pretty much shite."

Thoughts collide and overwhelm. What exactly is our commonly accepted version of normalcy? Is it Sunday afternoon or is it Tuesday at 7pm? Can calendars be accurate? Are there weeks? Days...I agree that days exist but weeks are arbitrary. We were born into limitive counting systems...yet numbers are fucken infinite.

We were born into jealousy. We were raised to respect the power of money and now a billionaire president sits upon high basking in that respect. It's obligatory but not deserved. The USA gives too much power to new presidents. Respect is earned but power is won in elections? Fuck that! Power should be earned.

And the answer to it all is...

\-------

Patrick's mother, Brenda, woke up feeling a way she had never felt. Dreams of Patrick haunted her...he had died as a child and many nights were punctuated by dreams where he was still alive. Some dreams left him 7 years old. Other dreams had him a grown man, like this one. But the dreams never made waking up feel this bad. Struggling for breath, she remembered that bum with the orange face saying crazy shit the day before.

Her mind turned to Patrick one last time before death took her.

-Chapter 5

Orangel sat patiently outside of the Grumpsle's most private room. He had been summoned. Before too long, the door swung open. Orangel walked in.

The room wasn't large at all. Perhaps 15" square. He had been there only once before...back when the Grumpsle created Orangel. Prior to that day, Orangel was just an average American. The Grumpsle had immense magic, tho. Many spells were cast that day.

Orangel had emerged from that room a prophet, a twister of words...a weapon. As he walked into the room presently, no memories came back to him. Memories were useless. Memories are facts and facts are useless.

The room was dimly lit by a lamp on the Grumpsle's desk. Orangel sat down in the only chair available.

Orangel: Hello, Master.

Grumpsle: Greetings, Orangel. Have you completed your tasks?

Orangel: Yes, Master.

Grumpsle: Has anyone any understanding of what you are?

Orangel: No, Master.

Grumpsle: And no one has outsmarted you?

Orangel: No, Master. All is going according to plan.

Grumpsle: Do not act as if you know my plan!

Orangel: Of course, Master. All my apologies.

The Grumpsle sat back in his chair and lit a cigar.

Grumpsle: Where do your loyalties exist?

Orangel: With you, Master.

Grumpsle: Good. I have one last task for you.

Orangel: Anything, Master.

Grumpsle: I want you to destroy America. I want you to do it slowly. I want you to weaken patriotism. I want you to turn neighbor against neighbor. I want you to lie and lie about lying. I want you to spread fear, dread, and frustration. I want you to diminish female self-worth. I want you to aggrandize assholic behavior in men. I want you to disrespect Native Americans. I want you to spread pollution and hinder solar energy. I want you to spread racism. I want you to be such a bastard that millions of Americans protest you...and when they do, I want you to ignore them.

Orangel: Yes, Master.

Grumpsle: I will make you more powerful than you ever imagined. I want you to abuse that power and walk around like you have a pill problem.

Orangel: Yes, Master.

Grumpsle: Ignotgracio dyshrmnia praplex aentrrnau!

A flash of light enveloped the room.

Grumpsle: Now go, Orangel. You have much to do.

Orangel: Of course, Master.

-Chapter 6

The president woke up feeling great.

-The End

7 That Kid by the Railroad Tracks

I called Tina into the kitchen. I told her I couldn't take it anymore. Everything I used to be was gone. She had done all she could but onto the list of ex girlfriends she must go.

She protested. Honestly, it felt good to know that she actually cared enough to fight for our relationship. I always knew she cared for me more than I had to capacity to reciprocate. The tears welled up in her eyes and she tried to hug me. I told her to stop. Nothing could stop me from feeling the need to split with her. I reminded her of all the conversations that fell flat because out lack of similar interests. I left her apartment and didn't much consider looking back.

Outside, the Spring air smelled clean. It was the first day of the season so it was still kinda chilly. The Northeast was dealing with winter storms but SE Michigan was finished with Winter. I zipped up my jackets and walked toward Downtown.

It felt weird to be single again. I had dated Tina for years. My brain felt unrestrained. The cool kids would say she was cramping my style. I would say she cramped my intellect. Always, I found myself in reiterations to explain things to her. Most of the time, I would just tell her to nevermind...for I knew she'd never really get it.

I made it to Biddle and decided to go to the library. In the past, after an arduous breakup, I would read some ridiculously abstruse Philosophy book. Even if I only comprehended ⅓ of it, it felt like an act of single selfishness...one that isn't possible while in a relationship.

The library was moderately dense with people. Wyandotte's library was always quiet. Of all the libraries in Wayne county I had been to, Wyandotte's just had a certain calmness about it. It isn't much of a library, tho. Kinda spacious but not an overwhelming selection. Over the years, I had checked out most of the Philosophy books. There were only a dozen or so.

I found nothing worth checking out. I told myself that it was alright...I'd go buy one or borrow something from another library. I left and headed to the local coffee shop.

At the age of 32, coffeeshops aren't much fun, so to speak. Especially in the late afternoon. Of the dozen or so people, half were high school kids. I sat on a couch reading a Physics book that was part of the shop's library, sipping my coffee. I looked at my phone and Tina had texted me 3 times. I shut it off. The last thing I needed was a reason to go back to her place.

I sat at the coffeehouse for too long and ended up bolting out the fucken door in an act of anxiety escaping. Yeah, I have moments...I'm not normal, as some say. I tend to be quiet and fear approaching people I don't know and at some point, my brain overhauls and I just need to be anywhere else.

Maybe I was more upset about the Tina-thing than I knew. I went to the liquor store and bought a half pint of rum. Best place to drink in public (besides a bar) is a fast food bathroom. Lock the shitter door and spend 10 minutes binge drinking. (Sure, parents don't want their kids hearing about this kind of stuff, but oh well.)

Sometimes, my mind just needs a release. I sat on the toilet, pants up, drinking and reading Tina's texts. She apologized...for what?...I don't know. She told me to come back so we could discuss things. I was 'rash' to just throw away years of love.

I finished the rum and popped a piece of gum into my mouth. Flush. Leave the restaurant and walk around the neighborhood letting the booze kick in.

It started slower than I expected. Sometimes it hits super-hard and I can barely walk, but this time it took like 30 minutes to really feel anything. Then, BAM! I'm staggering down the sidewalk. No one's around, tho. It's an overcast day and it's chilly. I'm in the clear as long as I don't lose my balance, fall over, and puke. I made my way to the railroad tracks and sat there for at least an hour. Then, some kid walks up to me.

Kid: Hey mister. What are you doin?

Me: I'm just enjoying the weather. You shouldn't be playing by the tracks. What would your parents say?

Kid: My mom knows I'm here. I live in that brown house right there. I play by the tracks all the time. Even in the winter.

Me: Well then.

Kid: You look sad.

Me: I guess I am.

Kid: Why?

Me: My girlfriend and I just broke up.

Kid: Why?

Me: It just didn't work out, kid. What's your name?

Kid: Kevin.

Me: What grade you in?

Kevin: 5th.

Me: You do well in school? What's your favorite subject?

Kevin: I get mostly Bs. I really like Math.

Me: That's good. Math is important. Stick with it, Kevin. Those that do good in Math can go on to have good careers.

Kevin: I want to be a fireman.

Me: One of my friends is a fireman. It's a cool thing to be.

Kevin: Hot.

Me: Hot?

Kevin: Yeah. It's not cool...it's hot.

Me: Ha. Funny.

Kevin: What do you do?

Me: I'm an author. I write books.

Kevin: What kind of books?

Me: Books for grown ups. Scary stories.

Kevin: Like with ghosts and zombies?

Me: Kinda. Yeah...sometimes.

Kevin: My favorite are werewolves. It would be cool to be half wolf.

Me: I bet.

Kevin: Just think about it...every full moon you could become a blood-thirsty savage and slaughter all the fucking phonies in Wyandotte.

Me: Does your mother let you cuss like that?

Kevin: No. To her I'm still her little angel. All my friends talk like this, tho.

Me: Yeah, I guess it's hard to be innocent these days with the internet and whatnot.

Kevin: What's that supposed to mean?

Me: When I was in 5th grade, I didn't have the internet. Tv wasn't as vulgar. Kids weren't as exposed to the scatological...

Kevin: ...the what?

Me: Fucked up shit like murder, gore, hate, and the like.

Kevin: Oh.

Me: Times change, tho. Innocence is always diminishing.

Kevin: You talk funny.

Me: Life is funny, Kevin. Life is funny.

Kevin: Wanna hear a joke?

Me: Alright.

Kevin: How many cows did the farmer take to town?

Me: I don't know.

Kevin: GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU FUCKING DRUNK!

With that, Kevin ran off. Honestly, I was entirely freaked out. Firstly, the kid was a bit too grown up for his age. Secondly, I was wasted in public. Lastly, he fucking screamed the punchline. The last thing I needed was some neighbors calling the cops about a screaming kid and finding me drunk. I've watched the news. Even mild paranoia allows me to understand that I could be labelled a pervert.

So I took off walking, my heart racing. I figured that my only haven would be a bar, so I walked to the closest watering-hole I knew of and sat at the bar. I ordered a beer and surprisingly got served. I told the woman next to me about Kevin.

Woman: My nephews are just as weird. I swear.

Me: Ha. I suppose it takes our minds away from other things.

Woman: Yeah. Like my husband.

Me: What's up with your husband?

Woman: He's been working 2nd shift so I don't get to see him much.

Me: That sucks.

Woman: It's alright. He's only doing it for a few weeks. Thing is: He's been staying up until like 4am every night working on his guitar playing.

Me: He's keeping you up?

Woman: Yeah. Don't get me wrong...he's really good...but I don't much like the style of music he plays.

Me: So I take it you aren't his muse.

Woman: Not at all. Sometimes it seems he makes music to annoy me. I know that sounds neurotic.

Me: For this conversation, I'll just take your side.

Woman: Thanks. See, we never really seen eye-to-eye when comes to music. We like a few of the same bands and that was enough in the beginning...but after we got married, he picked up the guitar. He's been playing for a good 15 years now and he's really dedicated to guitar and music and whatnot. He told me he listens to "guitar music".

Me: I follow. Stuff that only musicians listen to. Weird, hard-to-listen-to type stuff.

Woman: Yep. As much as I support him, I just can't stand it sometimes. Beyond that, he judges the music I listen to.

Me: Non-musician music...radio stuff?

Woman: Yeah. I always thought I had a good taste in music...but my husband turns on me sometimes. Makes me feel like a shithead for liking a Pop tune.

Me: Sounds tough.

Woman: Especially now since I don't get to see him...only get woke up by his nonsense.

Me: Want another beer?

Woman: If you are buying.

Me: Bartender...

So me and this woman, whose name was Diane, talked for hours. She got drunk and I let my buzz taper off. One thing led to another and I ended up fucking her in the bathroom. When we were finished, she told me it was a mistake. (Of course.) I told her that weakness is part of us. I can keep secrets. She left the bar before I did.

-The End

8 Paranoia = Hilarious

Becky looked at Tim and lied thru her whore teeth. "I'm getting a massage after work." Yeah right. Tim knew that meant a twat massage from some fuckface's dick. Hell-forbid she tell the truth for once. He gave up on rubbing her back long ago. Gary, Tim's friend, would say: "Women make you rub their backs because they know it's a pain in the ass...but if you're willing to do it, that equates to love." Tim thought it true. Becky always went on about how great massages felt but she never game him worth living thru. Her massages never made him feel better. After their relationship got to the point where he didn't get turned on just by her touch or a glimpse at her tits, Tim quit giving so many back rubs. "When a guy quits rubbing your back, that's when you know the relationship is ending," said Rhonda, Becky's best friend...and absolute nitwit. Truth is that no one knows a fucking thing about relationships. Only thing people can offer is advice on how to put up with the bullshit...and even then, the advice isn't worth a fuck. Tim kissed Becky bye and made plans to have another $2 experience at the local coffeehouse. Would he meet an interesting person? Probably not. For whatever reason, life had lost all vitality. He knew it was Becky's fucken attitude. Even if she wasn't out banging some fuckface, her heart wasn't in their relationship anymore. Neither was Tim's. "You can love someone and still hate being with them. Being in a relationship is just learning how to balance and live with it," Gary would say...but he's as much a nitwit as Rhonda. It's no wonder they fucked that one New Year's Eve. "I don't regret fucking him. It was good and all...I'm just glad that Dalton hasn't found out." Rhonda's a slut. Maybe she's a nympho but probably not. We're all bored and fed up with monogamy. We're all born into a tired generation conditioned to accept all the traditions of yore. We grow up watching it make our parents and their friends into fucktards, yet we just play along. Even our generation's forays into philosophical exploration are analogous to 1900s bullshit. We're changing shit at the same rate as our elders did. "Politicians just sit around and talk of change. They don't want change, tho. If they wanted change, things would change." Pundits have opinions that belong shoved up bovine assholes (because they're bullshit). No one knows what to keep believing. Does Tim believe Becky when she claims to be true to him? Does Becky believe that Tim believes her lies?? Sure, she fucks fuckfaces now and again, but who in the flying fuck says that anyone is capable of living like we think we should??? Love is just some idea that we were raised to believe in...and we do blindly and unconditionally...then we go to college to make ourselves smart because we're born stupid and raised up to be ignorant. "Why do douchebags always like the shit I do? I swear that I get into a movie or band and the next thing I know, some dickface meathead is sporting the shirt." Gary always found fault in stuff. It's not like anyone should get pissed at another for being cynical but it was true...a movie comes out boasting about the stupidity of acting cool and people latch onto it and think it makes them cool. In turn, they start acting cool...walking around like cock-sure greasers that secretly like ballet and football. "Life's either a pissing contest or a peacocking to get laid," Tim's dad once said. He's dead now, of course. Died of brain cancer, but lots of ignorant/arrogant fuckers do. They lead lives of averageness and believe whatever they want to, then cancer crops up and ends their life. At funerals, we ask why but we know why. We always do. We act like we don't, but that's just so the kids don't feel so alone in their actual confusion. "No one you'll ever meet will live up to the expectations that you have because all expectations are unrealistic...unless you willingly tone them down." The things written on bathroom walls in colleges can be slightly interesting, from time to time.You might think that colleges would be above graffiti but they're not. In fact, there are art classes that teach graffiti. Life loses its validity when you realize just how shallow people really are. Music is shallow. Drugs are only temporary. Art may be a catharsis, but for the most part, fools talk about it. The ignorant live for experiences and bettering ourselves only serves to stroke our egos. Tim sat at the coffeehouse watching couples come in looking moderately happy and thought of how Becky would come home later disinterested in him and how it would make him feel useless. His self-esteem will crash and for a while, the shame will make him suicidal. He'll sit there thinking of how tomorrow might be better. How maybe one day he'll meet people that seem to be cognizant of something more than the rigmaroles and whatevers. Not too long after coming home, Becky will take a shower, dry her hair, and go to bed. Tim will sit up for hours watching reruns on the tv and crash on the couch. "I guess you just gotta deal with it for now. You'll get a raise soon enough. Maybe you'll find a roommate that isn't a fucker and you can move out." Gary was full of optimism at times but optimism is enough to push the driven-mad over the edge. Becky texts: "Massage appointment cancelled b home after work" Meh. Fuck punctuation and grammar, supposedly. There's something about having that time taken away from you.It's somehow worse than the life you aren't getting to lead because you're stuck in an emotionally abusive relationship and a society that doesn't care if you starve. This collapsing world of curiosity and dilapidated possibility. This world where we can't recognize ourselves or find semblance. Fuck.

-The End

9 The Wizard and the Sultan

Sultan: Wizard! Come here!!

Wizard: Yes, Sultan?

Sultan: I was pondering, as all great men must, and I concluded that you and I could make a formidable team.

Wizard: Oh, you don't say?!

Sultan: I was born into power. Like it or not, it is in my best interest to be as supreme as possible.

Wizard: It is reprehensible to be morally repugnant.

Sultan: Think on it, Wizard...all the riches and pussy you could ever want. My father's generation is all but spent. He, himself, lays in a chamber at the east end of the palace, dying. When he goes, it will be my duty to take the reins completely.

Wizard: The people have never stopped adoring him.

Sultan: Yes, and even-tho I am technically Sultan, it is he who I must answer to.

Wizard: What are you suggesting?

Sultan: I want to rule the world. I want all to be servants that kiss my feet.

Wizard: That seems fucking retarded.

Sultan: How dare you insult this house!

That's when he hit me. He ranted and raved about his God-given birthright and how his will is an extension of God's will, or whatever.

Sultan: You insult this palace, yet it is this palace that has paved your way forward!

I hadn't forgotten. I was here in his palace for a reason. I had been en route elsewhere when a pack of crazed camels ate my supply pack. I had nothing but water for days until I made it to the palace.

Eskaveld has never been the most popular sultan. He's a dick about money and has a very high opinion of himself. This, of course, will be his downfall. I predict a mutiny, of sorts. He'll disrespect the wrong person and that will be the end of him.

-The End

10 For the American Factory Worker

The thing about working in a factory is that everyone around you is content with the idea of being stuck there for 30 years. You know you'll do the same thing for 5-10 years. Unless you want to work in the office, the highest position available is supervising manager and experience gets you that spot. 15 years and you might make $20 an hour...but with inflation, that might be as useless as a $.25 raise for a part-time corporate clerk.

No one is truly happy to be there. Everyone watches the shows about lucky people that don't have to work...or those that make $300,000 a year for doing something less tedious and banal. Everyone hides their discontent but there isn't a coworker you have that wouldn't tell their boss off if they won the lotto.

The only time you feel happy is on the ride to work. It's your only alone time. A guaranteed 30 minutes of commute. Maybe your morning coffee calms you. Maybe you drive in silence. Perhaps you listen to music or an audio book. Either way, you are doing what you are obligated to do. No one's gonna bitch at you for driving to work. If a bill collector calls, you're on your way to work. You can let your Mom's call go directly to voicemail...you're on your way to work.

At work, conversations are the only things that change. Everyone is dressed plainly or in uniform. Every day could be Monday cuz every day looks the same. New, different orders but the same volume of work to do. 5 hours on, 1 for lunch, 3 hours on. A couple breaks. This is middle class hell.

You'd give anything for a conversation with someone lucky, but you're stuck next to some half-literate ghetto fuck that thinks $10 an hour is dope. He's stoned and does a sub-par job but he's a body. You can't handle being stoned at work. After it wears off, you're left lackadaisical. 3 hours still to go before lunch and the sun burns your eyes as you step out for break. The non-smokers head to the breakroom to talk about bullshit...anything but work...usually sports. The smokers are all missing teeth. Most live in Detroit, so they have that mindset.

Your best bet is to go take your 15 minutes in between a couple machines or in between stacks of boxes. This causes employee turmoil. Your coworkers wonder if you hate them. Some of the Black ones give you the look that screams: "You're racist!" (But they're from Detroit, so they have that mindset.)

You find it hard to converse with most of your coworkers. They value stupid shit. Small talk is their forte and none of them read. By the time the day ends, you just feel empty. The only cool guy on the dock pats you on the back and reminds you that there's only 29 years and 11 months left.

Maybe you don't have a wife and kids. Maybe you just have a tiny apartment. You drive home and there's nothing uplifting on tv...ever. You've watched all your dvds multiple times. Garnished wages leave you with only a few dollars of disposable income. The only luck you have is that your friend gives you a quarter ounce of weed a week to drop him off at work...which is a few blocks from your job. He takes the bus home cuz he gets out earlier than you do.

When you get home, you call your parents, brother, sister, and text a friend. Everyone is okay. Nothing is going on. You take a shower. Eat a sandwich. Take back your library books (to a closed library). By the time you actually feel relaxed and out of the work frame of mind, it's passed 8pm. Most stores will be closed by 9pm. You head back home, smoke a bowl, and flip thru the tv. You find something worth watching and you go to bed later than you should cuz the morning comes really fucking early.

You dream of nothing.

Wake up, start a pot of coffee, take a shower, drink coffee, eat cereal, put the last bit of coffee in your travel mug, and it's time to go back to work. Sometimes you wake-n-bake. It makes the ride easier. Sometimes it makes the day go by easier. Most of the time it's just not worth it.

Traffic is congested. There's always construction popping up in Wayne county. You know all the detours but the drive is always finite. You pull in 20 minutes early and nod off for 15 minutes. The alarm on your cell phone goes off and you're staring at the same wall you see every day.

2 of your coworkers are smiling and laughing on the way in. Best friends they are. Annoying as hell. They'll never amount to anything but they won't know the difference. They believe in the virtues of working and entire life away. They have no aspirations for a special life. Every time they try to talk to you it's as if they are trying to intellectually rape you of all your hope.

As you walk in, your supervisor tells you you're to work with this guy on that machine...which is good cuz you're usually bouncing around from task to task...management takes their time figuring out where your permanent position will be, so they usually give you a 3 hour task and then you have to find them for more tasks. When you finish and find them, they look fed up with you and bothered by your lack of work to do. (Sigh.)

Anyway...so you have to work with this guy on that machine all day (which saves you from one evil) but this guy has halitosis and has to be right by your face for you to hear him. He talks like you're too dumb to fold a box or read a few numbers, but he's from Detroit, so he has that mindset.

Lunch comes and you drive away. You should conserve gas but people are so annoying. On your phone is an urgent call-me-back message from your dad. You call back and it's not really important but he makes you laugh a little. He asks how work is going. You tell him about halitosis guy and he tells you: "That's how it goes, son!" You agree to stop by after work to help with fixing the fence and hang up.

You stop at the gas station and buy a $.89 cigar. Smoking, for you, is only occasional and you shouldn't be spending any money but you figure that a calming cigar might help level you out. You cop a squat on the side of the building and space out with your old friend Nicotine.

After a few drags, your brain fuzzes out. You notice birds chirping. You pick up a rock and roll it in your fingers. You've got 32 minutes left and no one has called/texted back besides your dad. You wonder if your parents had you just to live thru their hell. Have a baby so it can become a working class stiff too? You push the thought away because it's pessimistically cynical and presumptuous.

You don't eat lunch ever. It's impractical with your wages and the cost of food. You're too proud to be on food stamps. All in all, you don't need to eat 3 times a day. The fat ladies at work disagree but they sweat profusely after doing very little.

25 minutes left and it strikes you that you need to get out. You aren't going to last another 359 months. Sure, it's a "good job at a reputable company" but it's driving you nuts. You should start looking for a new job, but it'll be just like this one. If you don't go back you'll probably lose everything...but if you go back, you'll flip out.

10 minutes left. You need to leave. You'll make it back just in time if you do.

If this was fiction, you'd sit there for another half an hour. You'd take the $20 in your wallet to the local diner and have a filling lunch because you're kinda starving. Your mom always says you look thin, anyway. You'd show up at your parents' house, tell them you quit, and by some miracle you'd find a way to get a great job and you'd live happily ever after.

But, life is not fiction so you go back to work. Halitosis guy pisses you off more. The supervisor comes by and reassigns you to sweeping for the last 90 minutes. Eventually, you clock out, help your dad, and go home with a belly full of Mom's cooking. Maybe you have a friend come over. Maybe you don't. Maybe you smoke a bowl. Maybe you finish off that pint in the freezer. Maybe you fall asleep reading.

5am. Daily routine. You work on the other side of the warehouse with a sweaty old lady. For lunch, you take a nap in your car. Cell phone alam. You wake up looking at the same wall. 3 more hours of sweaty old lady. The supervisor pays no attention to you.

The days pass like this. You work 6 days a week and Saturday nights are bar nights for you. Maybe you party with friends. Maybe alone. You stay up late philosophizing. Sunday you try to sleep in. You rarely do. You clean your apartment and visit your folks. It ends quick enough and you wake up 7am. Monday morning.

[months pass]

Your friend is always waiting outside your car when you get to it. The arrangement was that if he wasn't there by 8:15, then you don't have to take him. Today he looks really stoned. He hands you your weed and tells you to go easy with it. It's really strong. You shrug it off. He gabs about his job but you aren't all that coherent. If he asks, you'll blame "the Mondays".

Last Friday, your supervisor called you in for your 3 month review. It went well but instead of being bumped up to $13 an hour, you're only going to $11. He said something about the cutbacks and the economy. You weren't surprised cuz they laid off 4 new guys a few days before. There's nothing you could have said to change the way things are.

You drop your friend off at work. You try to pull into your job, but you can't do it...you call off, feigning influenza. The family physician is a family friend and is willing to be unethical for a doctor's note. Also, let's face it: It should be okay to call off for mild depression. A company can fuck an employee over and said employee can't say shit. With the economy in shambles, employers hide behind the fact that everyone is replaceable. Don't like getting stiffed? Quit.

Your father says this is how it's always been and times have never been harder. Employers get away with shit that should be illegal then they wonder why the economy is fucked.

Yet, no one cares about lowly workers. Thank you for a shoddy raise and inflation!

Like it or not, the days is already ending. A day off is only 24 hours. You miss out on the cash and your bosses will come down on ya even if you were hit by a car. Compassion is dead. Your coworkers will A: not notice you were gone or B: treat you like shit cuz they had to cover for you. You're gonna spend at least one hour thinking about work no matter what.

It's 9am when you pull into a local park. The sun is up, so the cops won't bother you but you hastily grab your papers from your backpack, break up a nugget, and roll a joint. Instantly, your mother's voice comes to mind...telling you that pot is ruining you, no matter how many doctors agree to give you a card.

You smoke your joint and have a decent day. Lots of time passes and your life turns out very typical. Not very happy but not very sad...and that's what really gets to you. On your deathbed you think back to all the times you should have abandoned everything stable...at least you would have known. You have kids and a wife but in the end, it's still your life. When everyone leaves the room, it's you back to being that overthinking youth.

-The End

11 Dennis Danceran & Ezekial VonHozzenmeit

-Chapter 1

Who are you?

"Ezekial VonHozzenmeit."

What business are you in?

"I am an expert at the trickle charger."

I don't have any automotive skill. My fingers reject the action.

"Either way, I am a trickle charger expert. When trickle chargers are broke, I am the man."

Okay.

"What do you do?"

Nothing.

"Doesn't that get boring?"

Sometimes and often. It depends on the day.

"What's your name?"

Dennis Danceran.

"Never met a Danceran."

Most haven't. I think it was changed from something long ago.

"So you do nothing?"

Pretty much. Ain't good at things like I used to be. Maybe I need better thangs to do...

[Dennis begins to mumble.]

"What the fuck, Dennis?!"

Huh?

"You're mumbling."

Am I?

"Yes."

I tend to do that. People say I got a touch of the autism. I don't know any different. Even if I am on the spectrum, life is just gonna feel like it always has.

"What does that have to do with anything?

Everything. I'm weird.

"Noticeably."

I'm just overwhelmed.

-Chapter 2

"If the billionaires want billions of dollars, then there isn't enough money to go around."

True. They use their affluence to sway minds and buy intimidation. I was thinking the next logical step from democrat/republican is educatian. Instead of splintering off into more political parties, we ought to converge as one. Call it what you will...but let each generation define its own laws. Let bipartisan siding end forever. America is a lot of things. A paragon of a confused governmental system. And we're supposed to act like we don't know this. We're supposed (and posed) to not have a better idea or more of a clue what to do or we're considered usurpers to the democracy.

"Yeah."

Why do orchestra players always have the music in front of them? We pat the soloist on the back for being able to memorize 30 minutes of music...but everyone else can't remember it? The formality of it being there is stupid. Actors can memorize entire movies. But every orchestra player needs the music?

"Is that some kind of metaphor for something?"

It could be. Politicians always have the law in front of them...following it formally, first and foremost.

"Like the sheet music of orchestra players?"

I meant it not that way, good sir. I assure you I did not. But if my words can start amphibolating, then I embrace it, my man!

"Yeah...right, Dennis."

[An awkward-enough pause happens. Both Ezekial and Dennis feel partially uncomfortable. The mood passes eventually.]

We should redo the wage categories, too. Reduce political theory to a singularity unarguable and bracket wages in 5 instead of 3.

"5 instead of 3?"

Right. Right now it's: lower, middle, and upper. 3.

"I'm following you."

So, we break it down into 5. Poor should be the lowest. There should be a Too Rich section. That would be number five. Kinda like:

  1. Poor

  2. Fine

  3. Middle

  4. ?

  5. Too Rich

"What do I call #4?"

I haven't thought that far thru on purpose. It's not my job to implement my philosophy on humanity...even if it is just Americans.

"Just Americans?!?!?!!"

Think globally. Planet first, country second. As a thinker it is my cross to bear, as the saying goes. But it's not a job. Every single thing is a microcosm for all. Doesn't mean we should be space-cases, tho...if you catch my drift.

"What does this have to do with the 5-part income categorization method?"

I was on a roll but you got tripped up because I reduced Americans to a thing.

"Funny how that works."

I don't think it's funny. Thought lots about how it could be funny...possibly...but my "attention deficit quirk" kicks in, ya know? Like getting nice and baked with no privacy and having nothing to do.

"Life is only pain some of the time."

I've reduced my pain cognizance to zero. Body pain...is something else entirely. I guess those Eastern religions think life is always painful in some way. Not physically. Metaphysically. The metaphysical is not physically quantifiable...so it cannot be painful! Psychosomatic theory be damned!

"Straight to a firey hell!"

The 5-part theory would make people realize that well-to-do IS rich. Wealthy people always seem to defend their richness by talking of the super rich. In the Too Rich section of my theory, there would be the upperest wealthy...billionaires...and there would be a 5 cent tax on them called the I Have Billions While Others Starve Tax. The five cents is an insult, of course.

"They are overly wealthy. And as I said before, if they demand to command that much money, the rest of us can't be okay."

Or: If they need that much money, all cannot prosper. And it's sad that they don't see it that way. They live far away from the shitholes that imperfect wage gap issues create. A billionaire doing anything is a slap in the face of humanity. It proves evolution. It proves that even if one aspect is bound to pass on to newer generations, then there is one person aware that they are genetically discontinued...but they are super wealthy. Perhaps 66.6% of a billion. I guess it's like: At what percentage of $1,000,000,000 do you become a dickhead/bitch? I'd feel comfortable with <$1million at one time.

"Especially when $10,000 would help a lot of people greatly."

Right. Money just chills in the bank while people go to jail for unpaid fines. This is America bleeding to death. Just don't tell anyone.

"Fuck, most people I know would shit a brick over a grand."

True that. All the while, we watch the news for the promised end to financial entropy. All the while, we wait for the government to unleash us on doctors used to gouging our wallets with their fingers, sweet fingers. Quadrupling costs is not illegal but a roach in your hand is some time in jail. [America is great...but it needs more jails.] Then, we're supposed to stand in awe of how foreigners are treated? Meh. I think not. Our jails are overflowing because it's hard to exist. Laws constrict. Republicans power thru....strong-arming with a forearm tattoo that reads: MORALS. The democrats are just constantly outraged at the right. Even when there isn't anything new, they find something to nitpick as they claim political theory supremacy while denouncing racial supremacy.

"Hey. I consider myself a democrat."

And you can't just grow from a comment, can you? You gotta make a huge fuss and make a hooplah and a whatnot. I can talk of the folly of humanity and not feel terrible because I am human. Democrats don't do that.

-Chapter 3

[This chapter starts many years in the future. Ezekial VonHozzenmeit and Dennis Danceran are very good friends. Perhaps best friends. No way to quantify the non-physical things like opinions of friends...so on with the story we go. The world is exactly the same. Politician after politician stood up to be president. All failed. Still corrupt. Money grazes hands, swaying perception.]

We aren't much more than the Ancient Greeks.

"I suppose not."

Here we are, years from the first day we met and I don't feel one iota smarter. Nope. Not one iota. I don't.

"I feel ashamed."

For why? Humanity is flawed. You are part human. It's alright.

"I've listened to your philosophizing for decades now. It is interesting and thought provoking, but it does not sway my train of thought."

Yet, without me you would have been bored.

"You are right."

You still feel ashamed?

"Yes, I do. Here we sit decades from our first meeting and we are not what we should have been. We slacked off too much. What have we achieved that the Ancients have not? Do inventions even matter?"

Things come and go. Inventors think of things they see fit to be invented, ya dig? Technology, intellectualism, etc...they matter not. We are no better than the Ancients. Even if we grew wings, humanity isn't getting better. It's just existing and functioning in a less than perfect manner.

"I still don't get the '<P' tattoo craze."

Perhaps you aren't one to understand much of anything, my good sir.

[a mild scuffle occurs]

-Chapter 4

Running your mouth and assuming shit.

"What?"

That's what gets you fucked with in the hood. I assume prison is much the same, but stricter. Not from the authorities, no. But from the inmate hierarchies. All those people so far beyond saving completely...

"...you're assuming about prison."

And running my mouth. I'm just saying that if I ever go to jail, I'll just take my understanding of the hood cuz the hood is full of niggas that been in jail/prison. Fuck...it's good money on the chance that I chatted with an escaped prisoner somewhere. So it's like: The hood is prison.

"I rather liked the sunrise today. Did you catch it?"

Tried, but it burned thru my hand.

"I see what you did there. Funny. Good show!"

Autistics struggle with neurotypicals relying on being anti-literal. As if anyone should excell at evading literal functions of sentences!

"You lost me."

It's like: What fucks with autistics most is what's wrong with people: Humans are insane. We believe very little of what all believe in. Humans are insane. Then, we fault those born incapable of rationalizing neurotypicals acting like crazy jackasses. The issue is: You can't explain humanity comprehensively without your brain exploding. That is a FACT.

"I'll check your references on that one, Dennis."

I think now of the angry republican trying to maintain dominance.

"Oh, really?"

Yes, fucking really. To them, life has a hierarchy. They've spent decades ascending. Generations. They harp on about supporting troops. It's cuz they envision them above their lower status. They can't stand that I think a troop is just a person. They act like they're heroes cuz they made the choice to serve. I made a choice not to. Call me a traitor. Call me suicidal. Call me a conspiracy theorist. But a troop is just a neighbor that would kill for America. Wars are fought for all the wrong reasons. Instead of avoiding wrong reasoning, reasoners reason wrong...and they basically don't give a fuck.

"Tell the parakeet swindler story."

That old story? Why do you want to hear it?? You've heard it at least 53 times.

"It gets better each time. Trust."

Fine. I was at some indoor flea market. I was shopping alone, tho I did arrive with 2 people. Anyway, I came upon a little pet store, of sorts. Puppies, kittens, fish, etc. So I see this bird. One of those big talking ones. I start checking it out right...and then the proprietor is all like: "Hey, you wanna feed dat bird?" And I was like: "Yeah." So the dude gave me 3 crackers. As I'm feeding the bird, it's saying words to get the crackers. Right before the last one, the bird calls me a fucker.

[Ezekial erupts in a bout of disruptful laughter. In all the years of friendship, Dennis has never laughed at the bird calling him a fucker. In fact, the experience scarred him. Never the same again. The bird knew what the word meant. Dennis knows it should be funny. Some things just aren't.]

"Go on."

One day, you'll not gain your wind back.

"Your curses are ineffective."

Thusfar...so I stop right before I feed this bird and some old lady sees me...tho, she didn't hear it call me a fucker. She starts bitching at me about teasing animals. Some left-wing nut job...they're always looking for a cross to bear. She kept calling me a parakeet swindler. I told her what happened. "Parakeet swindler!" I told her it wasn't a parakeet. "Parakeet swindler!!" Angrier and angrier she grew until her head exploded a beanstalk to a far, far away kingdom. I lived there, of course, for a decade or so.

"I bet that was about the time I started to kwetelplahbp."

Probably. I had to leave for my giant kin were needed back on a forefront, of sorts.

"Sounds like a lonely vacation."

I still worry you don't take me seriously, VonHozzenmeit.

"Why would I?"

[Dennis sends a spell of mild disorientation to Ezekial, who sat unsuspecting.]

I, like much of humanity, have chosen to become selfish and evil. If only for the last decade or so of this life. As before, I will have your attention for a short while. You won't remember this. I would confess a past transgression against you, but we were too close...parakeet swindler ribbing aside. I never wanted to be evil. I wanted to believe in the logic of eventual peace...but eventual is never current. So yeah.

-Chapter 5

[Back to present time.]

[Enter new character: Nancy]

Nancy: America is dying.

Dennis: I know it.

Nancy: People point out what we don't like. People that act like they should ever change for a better. 'Evolution is an imposition!' That is what they chant.

Dennis: You've heard the chanting?

Nancy: Yes. Near what is now known as the Hoop Star Park.

Dennis: Hoop Star Park?

Nancy: Yes. Hoop Star Park. What it was called before, I know not. Couldn't explain it to ya...I was rather twisty in my misty mind as waves of green...

Dennis: ...you know I adore your poetics!

Nancy: Typical man: Interrupt to compliment. Where was I? Oh yeah...I heard the chanting in the park. "Evolution is an imposition! Evolution is an imposition!! Evolution..." I dared not get close enough to see, you see. I didn't want to be noticed. They were shouting. Some were screaming like some blind testosterone rage. I heard madness, I did.

Dennis: Madness?

Nancy: Yes. Madness. I just don't understand how some men can say they love their moms, sisters, and wives but defend the sorry state the sexual harassment issue is. Not only are they unwilling to change, they don't realize they can't be a both. You can't get applauded for knocking out some dude that gropes your lady and grope ladies. If you'd knock a motherfucker out for saying erotic things to your grandmother, then you can't sexualize every female clerk.

Dennis: But it's not like men are alone.

Nancy: True, Dennis. Women wear yoga pants to EVERYTHING. You can't wear yoga pants to everything and bitch about sexual harassment issues. Men rely on sexual excitation. Something needs to excite their brain.

Dennis: Right. Just seeing a beautiful lady isn't enough to get me worked up.

Nancy: But give you a fit soccer mom in skin-tight clothes in front of you in a line for a corporate coffee or whatever-juice...

Dennis: ...and it's overwhelming. Nothing is left to the imagination, as they say. But, the imagination explodes.

Nancy: Excitation.

Dennis: Excitation.

Nancy: Women wanna act like they ain't tilting the scales too. Worst part: Women ain't changing within the next few minutes. It's like: As we watch someone dig our grave, we listen to a lecture on the efficacy of holes.

Dennis: Nice.

Nancy: Thanks. But it's true. We all blame the macro-world. We are statistics and some of those statistics we are are disturbing and sad. Terrifying, even!

[Dennis screams and walks away. He is not seen again for hours. Some time passes.]

[Enter: Ezekial]

Nancy: So, have you seen Dennis?

Ezekial: Not since we talked last. How long's it been since you seen him?

Nancy: 2 hours and 13 minutes.

Ezekial: Yikes.

Nancy: I know.

[Enter: Dennis]

Dennis: Hey, y'all. Sup?

Nancy: Where have you been, scallywag?

Dennis: Rowing my boat to shore.

Ezekial: You 2 are...

Nancy: ...leave, Ezekial.

[Nancy throws a plate at Ezekial's head. He ducks out of the way. It was Dennis' opinion that the plate was lobbed...giving Ezekial plenty of time to dodge.]

[Ezekial exits.]

Dennis: Halloween.

Nancy: Halloween?

Dennis: Yes, Halloween.

[maniacal laughter ensues]

-Chapter 6

[Ezekial was used to Nancy's spastic outbursts. When they first met, she told him: "I am an intense woman." Life is a show to her. Chattel is props. (Are props?) If you just go along with her, life is insane. Consequently dangerous, yes...but life is better with risk. Can't escape it. Everyone sucks. I suck. We base our choices on how much we agree with the sentiment. We are our choices. We are the negativity we invite. Ezekial had a thought and it escaped him. No conclusion. Yet, he was used to Nancy. He had overheard a conversation or 2 between her and Dennis but couldn't follow them. The 3 lived in basic harmony for decades.]

[Fast-forward to future from before.]

Dennis: Nancy, it is almost Halloween.

Nancy: Yeah, so?

Dennis: It's almost that Halloween.

Nancy: I know. We've been planning it for years. I'm not fucking retarded, Dennis.

Dennis: I'm sure we'd all wind up getting retard grades on many IQ tests.

Nancy: It was the intellectuals who fucked themselves. They made IQ tests not to find genius. They wanted to find all the kids that functioned in ways they needed. So much is slanted these days.

Dennis: These days.

Nancy: How can we get an accurate measure on slanted surfaces colliding in phantasmagorical disarray? We are the sick for others are sickened of us.

Dennis: But it is approaching that Halloween.

Nancy: Yes, Dennis...it is.

-Chapter 7

[Halloween rolled around. Dennis and Nancy looked at one another. Ezekial lay dead. They spoke of better moments. There wasn't much talking, tho. What happened after that was the real tragedy. The magick gained by eliminating Ezekial raged havoc on their constitutions. First mental, then physical. They lost interest in friends. They lost interest in things. They lost interest in each other. On a Sunday, they said final goodbyes to each other. It was maybe a month before they died. They were old so no autopsies were required...but folk have their assumptions.

[Narti is a blood relative of Nancy. Long story short: Nancy got knocked up by some bouncer she was dating. They never got in a relationship, but had the sex, which led to the kid which led to a civilian-agreed partial custody, if you catch my drift. Narti is the 5th female, only child in her line. So it was Nancy who gave birth to Narnty, who gave birth to Namialy, who gave birth to Narti's mother, Natily.

1.Nancy

2. Narnty

3. Namialy

4. Natily

5. Narti

[Of course, you'll notice that Narti is the only one named with an "i" at the end. The Seers of the Futures had prophesied that a 5th child would be born to offset a great balance. At first, I didn't believe them. Nope. Not one bit. Then I noticed it with my very own being.]

[Narti is smoking weed with her friend Ashlazahbah Quontstipico.]

N: This is some pretty good smoke.

A: Definitely.

-Chapter 8

[One day, Narti is visited by 4 ghosts: Her mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and the Origin She-Being, Nancy]

Namialy: Quiet, girl. For now we speak of rank alone.

Narti: Yes, Grandmother.

Origin She-Being: It is best if you just listen, dear.

Narti: Yes. Your being is life in all.

Narnty: My mother!

All: Fantastic times!!

Natily: It is you, object, that plays no part in the way things are. We condemn thee to a lifetime of haunting. Choose one of us.

Narti: The prophecy is clear. Morality is clear. I must choose my mother.

Natily: So you choose me?

Narti: Yeah. Why not, you old hag?

Natily: You have chosen. You cannot change your selection. I will haunt you. Go back to your insignificant life.

[Narti was driven mad by her mother's ghost. Natily was brutal, scary, invasive, and nosy. That was when Narti started removing her body parts and replacing them with machine parts. She became completely controlled and in control. Surely, it was absolutely wonderful. Narti became one with the machines. To them, she was like a cartoon character. Not a real being, but imaginary accounts for lots. Ain't just an American thing. But then Narti betrayed the machines. She was too human to not be mistrustful and pissy. Perhaps she feared 100% assimilation. Either way, the machines got mad. Then, they removed madness from their functioning capabilities and soon brainwashed all humans into no longer having madness. Scientists dubbed it "madnity". Little did most folk know but Madnity was the name of Dennis' grandchild. The hyper-paranoid ponder, sometimes, about the connection between Madnity and Namialy...records prove they lived close enough to have seen each other around, as the saying goes. Anyway, so madnity is socially tabooed. It goes underground. People are paying good money just to scream at someone. Most people leave hoarse...so hoarse that they need to call off work the next day. Sad part is that it's not even completely volitional. No one knows why they need to express madnity. Some people tell themselves that it's just our need to be loud. Like when we were kids and would scream at the park or while goofing around. Not all childhoods are the same. Some can't make noise like that. Quiet is key. The machines destroy the screamers. Government thinks the risk ain't worth it. It creates tension only released by screaming. No one with anything to lose would go scream, but systemics keep lots of folk in positions where there isn't anything to lose. But, alas, the humans rose up above their creations gone wild. A ruler by the name of 4enck came about. He was the figurehead of the movement that followed the machine-control's end.]

-Chapter 9

[The details surrounding Narti's death are incomplete. She had a very haunted existence and died old. As for 4enk, he was well aware that he wasn't an embodiment of the Freedom Movement. The Freedom Movement was much bigger than him. Life without madnity worked well. Generations came and went. Eventually, people honored the machines for removing madnity from society. Statues were erected. Sections of expressway were named for the blessings bestowed by the machines. It was all fine and dandy until existence unravelled and disappeared. Elsewhere, in a different dimension, Twim Digsley is attacked by panic. He gets woozy. The lights pulsate. He hears a voice: "Nancy Merkler...you are needed in the admin. Nacy Merkler to the admin." Twim passes out. Talexa finds him sometime later.]

Talexa: Hey. Are you okay?

Twim: Yeah. I received another prophecy. What do you know of the woman Nancy Merkler?

Talexa: Means nothing to me.

Twim: Me neither.

Talexa: I'm concerned about these prophecies you are receiving. Something evil is afoot.

[She was right. Just the name Nancy Merkler being mentioned aloud caused every fifth child to be stillborn. The curse lasted 3172 years. That's when God upgraded to Life 2.0. All lingering curses ended. All debts paid off. All it took was a bit of trying on God's part.]

-Chapter 10

God sat alone. The only sound was the wind outside. It was one of those breezy Autumn mornings after a night that chilled God to the bone. Sometimes the wind is strong enough to leak thru the windows. There in the room, God felt cold. It checked all the windows. All closed, tho the room felt like a window had been left open all night. But that was earlier. Now God sat alone hearing the wind and a train of thought.

A dog started barking.

It didn't bark long, tho.

Where was God? It didn't even know. Drugs can't kill God, but they can get God high. Yet, being God meant wisdom and such...so God was always aware of its tolerance. Never too much. But, God created LSD thru humanity so it's likely that God likes to trip.

But, it's rude to assume things about God. Fact is that God was feeling bad for neglecting humanity. Leaving finance to humans was God's biggest blunder.

[Satan enters]

"What about me?"

Oh, hey Satan.

"You gonna mention me?"

If you come up. Quit being so antsy.

"But even mentioning me hurts the believers' feelings. It's hilarious to me."

If you truly care, you may stay.

[Satan exits]

God gave the people politics and politics ain't nothing but a heart-wrenching migraine. Nothing else gets done, basically. Thing is: God really thought humanity would learn to synergize, but God didn't put the ability for World Peace inside of us.

See...God is insane. God, being God, can't exist as something and its opposite. Opposites, in fact, aren't really opposites. We just categorize them that way because it seems efficient.

But just cuz God is insane doesn't mean it's from the drugs. It doesn't mean it's from a lack of perfection. Perfection begets perfection, but all perfection is unique. Let's forget about replication. God creates perfections because it's the only creations that can stump it.

But, you have to realize that there was a time when God didn't realize it needed to upgrade Life to a 2.0. People lived not in a godless time, but in a state of spiritual absenteeism.

Legend has it that God changed its perception of time...aligning with human time perception. God was astonished. Even with overseeing Infinity, God should have caught this. Instead of just instantly changing things for the better, it decided to live 4 days with humanity. God existed in all beings and heard all talk. God felt every pain and laugh.

God let it go on for 4 days...because we are a science experiment. You think God is a sadist? What about the people that could feed the starving by writing a check? God could have walked into every board room in the upper-class business sphere and talked sense into everyone. The world's lack of money: Solved.

But, God wanted to feel our pain. Instead of ending our pain, God felt our pain.

Meanwhile, those that didn't believe in God only thought of that religion once and awhile. They didn't think much of the new holiday. Believers in God are kinda obsessive and staunchy, so they had a holiday to celebrate Life 2.0. Non-believers merely noticed that believers stopped acting like it's a virtue to be asinine fools.

'If they want to pull their heads out of their asses, let be a windy day so the scent of shit doesn't linger.'

That's a famous non-believer bumper sticker. It's from some stand-up comedian...she was joking about how much it must have smelled that day when they all pulled their heads out of their asses. She talked of a hot, muggy day...all the sudden, you hear poppings. Pop, pop. It's the sound of the neighbors pulling their heads out of their asses. Before washing, they step onto the porch to take in Actuality and see you standing there. World is full of people that love God...so billions smell of feces. But, they're accustomed to it, ya know?

Of course, that could be a metaphor...representative of examples in real life when prejudice idiots change their tune and act like smug fuckers cuz now they will let people with facial piercings work for them...or something like that.

It's best to just treat God like a legend. Not only does it put God in its place, but the music legends that people treat like gods will be less effectual in the grand scheme of things.

Because God cannot be an actuality. If God was God, it wouldn't leave us to hunger, disease, and stuff like that. God is perfect, but the perfections it creates aren't even comprehendable to God. We define ourselves. God's worst rudeness was its hive-mind operation. God wanted a lot of people on its wavelength...like the president wants only enough people on his side...God knew that a percentage of people would never believe...but God's like the White supremacists that believe in the efficacy of collateral damage. All those White folk that live in poverty cuz they live in/near Black neighborhoods...fuck em, I guess. 'No doubt, some of that "nigger mentality" would have rubbed off on em. Crossbreeding is bad. Talking to them is bad. If 1 White has to live like a nigger so that 10 niggers can be kept in their place, then so be it. We tip our hats to you for your sacrifice.'

Racism is something God allowed to happen for 4 days.

-Chapter 11

We are very unalike, but in our anger we find sameness. Yet, we celebrate our anger on fields of war. We fight people with equal anger. Rage is temporary and unpredictable (for the most-part). Problem is: Once you're at war, you can't just see humanity in your enemy's anger, quit, and go home. By the time you realize that what you think is worthless is worth dying for to someone else...by then you are realizing that what you're risking your life for is ultimately worthless.

So like: You are worthless. You aim to kill someone just as angry and insignificant as you and your politicians sit safely waiting for the collateral damage report. "How many lives did freedom cost us this time?!" But, if you went back home, you'd be labelled a turncoat or something like that. Beyond that, home is a ghetto. At least with war you're life is supposed to be in danger. At home, dangers are around. Don't look for them and don't look too surprised when danger creeps up on you.

So you can sit around with your rifle and think of ways to kill the savages or think of your home, where savages are around. Your home...where your extended family struggles with bills while politicians are quite well-to-do by hood standards.

It's weird what patriotism is supposed to be.

What patriotism is...well, that's something with certainty. I don't suppose patriotism is weird. But the thing it should be is...certain, that is.

I'm sick of pledging allegiance to a country when what I'm really pledging allegiance to is the nitwits that run it and those that idealize exclusive utopian versions of America.

-Chapter 12

[Flashback to not long after Dennis and Ezekial meet. Dennis is talking with an asshole.]

Asshole: You're so weird, Dennis.

Dennis: I'd like to think we're all weird.

Asshole: You take the cake, man. Your crackpot theories, conspiracy theories, your assumed-intelligence, chronic unemployment, marijuana usage...you're a kook.

Dennis: Well, you're an asshole.

Asshole: Being an asshole is not illegal. I can't get thrown in jail for being an asshole. I may get kicked out of a bar or in a fight with a bro, but...I can be president and be a ridiculous asshole. Anyone that assumes authority is an asshole.

Dennis: Being an asshole is wrong.

Asshole: Ha. According to your opinions. You wanna know what is wrong? Being gay...being a woman that thinks she deserves equality and respect. You know what your problem is, Dennis?

Dennis: What's that?

Asshole: You're on the wrong side of history, dude. All this time, you've wanted to be a nice guy but being nice is futile. Look around, Dennis. Assholes always win. Not every asshole...but all winners are assholes.

Dennis: Being an asshole is a choice.

Asshole: Right. Think of it this way: You being weird will take a backseat to being an asshole. Being a "crazy asshole" means you're an asshole, not crazy.

Dennis: You're right.

Asshole: Assholism trumps crazy. But since you're not an asshole yet, you can't hide behind assholism. People make fun of you, right?

Dennis: All the time. Fuck, you just made for of me a moment ago.

Asshole: When you're an asshole, no one makes fun of you. You can say whatever you want...as long as you are impossibly rude, you're just an asshole.

Dennis: And assholes don't care about anyone but themselves.

[That was the moment Dennis decided to be an asshole. It wasn't because of his mental illness. He was an American. Try as they might, Americans are all destined to be assholes. The real inquiry is: How much of an asshole do you want to be?" A little bit? A lot?? Do you want to end up the kind of person that plots to kill a friend??? Do you wanna spread racism and misogyny???? Do you wanna be a coffeeshop politician or barbershop philosopher????? You may say: "We don't matter." It's true. We don't matter. Be an asshole or not, you are insignificant. Humans complicate life because life is boring. Embrace the obfuscation, you fucken asshole.]

-The End

12 White Supremacy Island

Gerald looked quizzically at his family. They had decided to move to White Supremacy Island. He chose not to go. They couldn't understand what they did wrong...why did he turn out so wrong? Was it something mental...like some brain defect that led him to think Whites were equal to all other races? Did he just not love them??

Gerald's mom cried. Gerald's dad barely even looked at him...and when he did, Gerald was sure it was going to lead to an altercation. Yet, that's why White Supremacy Island was made: "To keep lousy turncoats away from the rational people of this world. America had become nothing more than a catch-all for immigrants, refugees, and race traitors. Even the new president shits all over White culture," was what Gerald's dad had said.

It was kinda scary when the White supremacists took to the streets in protest. Ironic cuz they were the ones bad-mouthing protesters in January of 2017. Things came to a head and the White supremacists filled the streets. Their numbers were large but not gargantuan. Gerald's dad said they had better things to do than protest. Time passed and things got worse. White supremacists started rioting. President Complacento went on television...saying that the violence needed to end...that another Civil War was nothing that need come to pass. He suggested White Supremacy Island, which left the White supremacists conflicted.

On one hand, the White supremacists didn't want to give up on America. They said the White man had built it...that White people deserved it. On the other, White Supremacy Island would be a paradise. When asked how many people were too bigoted to stay in such a diverse country, only a few million believed America to be intolerable.

So President Complacento had built an island off the coast of South Carolina. It was quite large...about the size of Connecticut. By the time it was finished, some 7 million White people were slated to move there. Surely, there was genetic testing to be done. No one with any "tainted" blood was allowed. Only 100% White people.

Gerald remembers it all unfolding. He remembers being confronted by his dad...a man sure his entire family would go with him. Yet, Gerald couldn't agree to go. He wasn't popular...he only had a couple friends...both White. In all honesty, White Supremacy Island sounded like a cool place. No ghettoes. No Spanish. Everything was new and exciting. It had 3 theme parks. Great schools. It was a self-contained utopia for hateful assholes...but Gerald just couldn't do it. He would have to take out his gauges, convert to Christianity, and deny the intelligence of all other races...all he had learned and experienced from those of color...all gone...rendered pointless confusion.

He hated the way anger spiked in White supremacists. Unquestionable authority was the paradigm.

He thought of the racial tension from minorities. He hated that shit. White = lame? No thank you! Backhanded jokes?? No thank you!! Gangsta Rap = smart??? Meh. There were loads of reasons to go.

Yet, it seemed selfish and irrational. He had too much hope for humanity. Anthropology meant too much to him. White Supremacy Island was promised to be a place where the truth of Science was allowed to be rejected. A council of world leaders decided to leave White Supremacy Island alone...racist White people needed a place to have their beliefs.

Some thought of it as an island for delusional maniacs. Many said that since White supremacy had no basis in scientific fact that it was a delusion. White supremacists argued that White privilege was a delusion. It went back and forth...White supremacists caused systemic racism which caused the delusion of White privilege...and so on. Most people realized that the delusions would end. Let people believe what they want. But, Civil War was ridiculous...so, White Supremacy Island became this place for delusional people to go and live in their willful ignorance.

The island was a part of the USA, technically. But it was allowed its own government. The denizens were to have guns and militias...but any strike against it would be an attack on the USA...so WSI was protected by the military. A peace treaty was signed. No one cared about WSI.

One world leader said:

"White Supremacy Island is of no concern to the world. It is a place of a certain faith. They seek not peace...only to be left alone. If they want to be free of influence, then so be it. I have personally talked to the governors of White Supremacy Island and they assured me that they merely want to be left alone. They are bound by the American government to just 'not give a fuck' about anyone but themselves. Hostile they are not. Volatile? Yes...but as long as we live and let live, no issue should arise."

Gerald's parents didn't leave at first. Most White supremacists didn't. Yet, WSI prospered. A philosophy was born. A culture manifested. People the world over realized that White supremacists merely needed a place to be themselves. It was interesting from an anthropological standpoint, but most humans didn't care. The denizens of WSI didn't care what anyone thought.

It was a sunny day when Gerald's parents left. He went with them to the docks. His mom cried. His dad half-heartedly shook his hand. All in all, 13 people from his family left on that ferry. He wrote to his mother but she didn't reply often. He was content in knowing they were alive and in peace.

Gerald had children. Those children had children. He got word of his parents' passings.

He was sitting on his porch on a Saturday afternoon when he heard the news...White Supremacy Island was bombed and destroyed. No survivors. Apparently, a radical group of African Americans figured out a way to nuke WSI.

Gerald wasn't really happy or sad. He wasn't surprised. Most Americans didn't care. A world free of radical White supremacy? Not a big deal. The African Americans responsible for the bombing were sentenced to death. Afterward, Black Americans denounced radicalism. They forgave White people for the past. One Black dude said: "We are even now. It is time for peace."

And peace there was. Racism ended. People realized that giving a fuck was the problem in the first place.

-The End

13 Fellwyn

"Identify!"

Hunh? Like: Tell you my name??

"Your name matters not. Did you even name yourself?"

No. My parents named me, duh.

"How can you define yourself thru the explanation someone else gave unto your existence?"

Well, I...

"...your parents probably named you before you were born, yes?"

I think so.

"So your entire existence was partially predetermined!"

Um.

"The sound that is your name was given to you before you even knew how to choose. So who are you besides what was/is expected?"

You're weird.

"Identify!!"

What does that mean?

"The definition of self is both internal and external. Of course, you define your own existence for individuality is true, but what lives do you reflect?"

Reflect? Are you on drugs??

"What subgroup of humanity do you belong to? To whom do you identify with??"

Like: My friends?

"Possibly. What other humans do you feel connected to?"

Alive or dead?

"Exactly."

Okay...well, I feel like a punker.

"Wrong! Fail you do!!"

With that, the floor opened up...Emily fell downward...reality flowed upward and away from her. The fall didn't last long, tho. THUD! The ground hit cruelly and she heard bones snap. "Help! Help!!" No answer. No light. Just confusion and pain. A stranger appeared with a lit candle.

Stranger: My dear...you are hurt.

Emily: Yes. I think my leg is broken.

Stranger: Indeed. I can sense it from here. You must away with me.

Emily: I don't know if I can walk.

Stranger: Fret not. I can heal you.

The stranger walks over to Emily and touches her cheek. She cringes but the pain in her leg diminishes.

Stranger: You have other injuries but we must go now. I will heal all else soon enough. We must be gone before Fellywyn finds you.

Emily: Who is Fellwyn?

Stranger: What is Fellwyn...hurry!

The stranger led Emily thru the dark with remarkable accuracy. It was obvious she knew the corridors well. Left, right, right, straight...Emily was dizzied by the experience. Where her leg felt fine, aches began to swell. Her shoulder felt dislocated. Blood seeped from a gash on her scalp. Woozy, she was. Yet, the stranger pulled her along...so fast that the candle went out. It affected her not, tho. After what seemed a long forever, they stopped.

Stranger: I say it to the Stars not seen,

I live within the world ungreen.

Light began to emanate from the wall they were facing. Colors. Flashes. The world seemed to sigh in luminescence. Emily was amazed, but before she could really take it all in, the stranger shoved her thru a doorway into another corridor. Tho, this one had lamps on the walls...bare walls. Bare, yet they seemed to undulate. Emily continued on but knew her strength was waning.

\-------

Emily woke on a small bed. So small, in fact, that her feet hung over the edge even when she curled up. Groggily, she realized her shoulder was better. Feeling her head, she found no blood or scar. Around the room, Emily saw only the basics...a dresser, a desk with chair, small trash can, a coat hanging from the wall, and a small trunk. The stranger entered the room.

Stranger: My name is Phrea.

Emily: Hello, Phrea. I am Emily. Thank you for saving me.

Phrea: No thanks is needed. Are you feeling alright?

Emily: Physically...sure. I'm confused, tho.

Phrea: Confusion ends, dear.

Phrea poured Emily some water...which she drank rather hastily.

Phrea: It's okay...I have plenty of water.

Emily: Oh...sorry...I didn't mean to guzzle it. Once I started, I couldn't help myself.

Phrea: It's alright. I must ask you: What did Fellwyn ask of you?

Emily: He wanted to know...

Phrea: ...it wanted to know.

Emily: It wanted to know who I identified with.

Phrea: Shit! Did you give any names?

Emily: No...I don't think so. It kinda talked of my parents but seemed not to believe they mattered.

Phrea: Parents don't to Fellwyn. It was born of hate and mistrust. In a gone age, Fellwyn began existing for a reason but with no purpose. All lived in a great city of Entonknoa. All they knew was peace. Then a monster was born...and otherworldly monster. Instead of euthanizing the monster, 2 denizens raised it in secret. When the monster came of age, it started drinking alcohol too much. It became the first emotionally abusive being ever. After years of alcoholic bullshit, the denizens of Entonknoa asked of the Wizard Wyn for help. It is said that Wyn attempted to cure the monster but his magick was not strong enough. In a cataclysmic uproar, his efforts failed...both he and the monster died but were reborn as one being. Fellwyn is the origin of all that is bad...everything wrong.

Emily: So wait...are you trying to tell me that Fellwyn is the root of all evil?

Phrea: Somewhat.

Emily: And that alcoholism stems from a birth defect in one being?

Phrea: Well, you can't really deny evolution.

Emily: I can if I want to be a republican!

[They both laughed heartily for at least 30 seconds.]

Phrea: But why side with racists?

Emily: Republicanism is the party for racist people.

Phrea: I've never met a racist democrat.

[More laughter.}

Emily: Okay...seriously...what did Fellwyn mean by "identify"?

Phrea: Firstly, you must understand that Fellwyn is not sane. It has been so drunk for so long that it no longer has a grasp on reality, sanity, or normalcy. We have had our greatest thinkers trying to understand it for generations.

Emily: Can't do it, can they?

Phrea: I'm afraid not...for to rationalize the thoughts of a drunk is enabling. The problem is that Fellwyn is very old...so its wisdom is obvious. Tho, it's more like taking a copy of every book in existence, shredding the pages, putting all the shreds in a big pile, mixing them up thoroughly, grabbing a handful, and calling that handful of mismatched knowledge viable. Fellwyn speaks in fragmental wisdom...so it sounds philosophically deep. It's not. It's merely aged knowledge.

Emily: So what does "identify" mean to Fellwyn?

Phrea: From what we can gather, Fellwyn places great importance upon one's social persona. Also, it values the introversional persona. We are both who we are while alone and who we get to be for others. It's like: The person you are while alone isn't exactly the same as who you are around your bar friends...which isn't the same person you get to be around your grandparents at church.

Emily: But I'm always me.

Phrea: Think of it in terms of aspects of your personality.

Emily: Oh. That makes a bit more sense.

Phrea: What you also have to keep in mind is that Fellwyn has rationalized all this philosophical stuff completely tanked. So it's all distorted and inexplicable.

Emily: Go on.

Phrea: The definition of self is both social and introversional. Fellwyn seems to value the social persona invalidly.

Emily: But you said it values social persona greatly.

Phrea: Right. Remember: Fellwyn is insane. The value placed upon social persona is absolutely dismissive but aggrandized.

Emily: So it's almost like how White supremacists think Blacks are all worthless but they could spend the rest of their lives talking about their opinions of Blacks.

Phrea: Right. Fellwyn seems to think that our social personas are wrong...like we ought not have a social persona. Our greatest minds posit this because Fellwyn spends most of its time alone and drinking.

Emily: Classic narcissism. The only thing that is valid is the reflection of oneself.

Phrea: Yup. Fellwyn values so greatly the introversional self that it wants to destroy the ability in others to identify with others. Does that make sense?

Emily: Yeah. Continue.

Phrea: The problem is that it's only Fellwyn that is not a gregarious creature. All others are gregarious. It is trying to change the makeup of existence so as to better suit itself.

Emily: Fuck.

Phrea: Yeah...fuck. Crazy part is that Fellwyn is infamous for acting out in the worst possible ways. It has 3 stages: Dormancy, Wrath, and Loathing.

Emily: Dormancy, Wrath, and Loathing?

Phrea: Yes. Most of the time, Fellwyn is in hiding. Whether it is boozing, drugging, or whatever, we know not of Fellwyn. Perhaps it even terrorizes other lands. All we know is solipsistic, I suppose. A moment comes, tho, when it loses control...it can no longer be a functional alcoholic...and it's wrath spills over. The Moment of Klemlak...

Emily: ...Moment of Klemlak?

Phrea: Yeah...this is the beginning of the Wrath stage. Someone comes across Fellwyn, it flips out for no valid reason, and then all hell breaks loose.

Emily: Was I part of this Moment of Klemlak?

Phrea: I'd love to say no, but can't. There is a small chance Fellwyn won't flip out, but it's really only a fool's hope. Are you sure you didn't mention anyone by name to Fellwyn?

Emily: Yeah.

Phrea: Good. When it loses itself to Wrath, it kills anyone mentioned by name from what it considers an Interrupter.

Emily: So, I'm the Interrupter?

Phrea: This time, yes.

Emily: What of the fates of past Interrupters?

Phrea: Some have lived. Most have died.

Emily: Fuck.

Phrea: I hurried to get you away because had Fellwyn found you before the Wrath stage fully ensued, it would have simply crushed you. For now, you are safe.

Emily: For now?

Phrea: Yes. Right now, Fellwyn is going off the deep end. It is downing liquor by the fifth. It is taking more pills than should be possible. It is poisoning itself to the point of blind rage.

Emily: And this is my fault?

Phrea: According to Fellwyn, yes. You have upset the Great Balance to it. You didn't just interrupt it. You didn't just upset it. You are the cause of every problem from the beginning of time. I once spoke with an Interrupter named Joshuae. He told me that Fellwyn told him that the Spirit of all Confusion and Frustration possesses an individual from time to time. This spirit, Phleb, is what compels Fellwyn to drink.

Emily: That makes no sense.

Phrea: It shouldn't. It's complete hokum. But, ask a republican...belief doesn't have to make sense.

[Laughter]

Phrea: Fellwyn told Joshua that Phleb finds it (Fellwyn) in times of great peace...times when it is almost ready to be Straight Edge. Phleb possess some individual, seeks out Fellwyn, disrupts its clarification reverie, and...well...causes Fellwyn to relapse, hard. So, right now, Fellwyn is bingeing like you couldn't imagine. Its anger is growing. You are safe for at least 2 hours. It may take days. But I assure you: It is losing itself to rage. It will come for you. Many will die.

Emily: Okay. Not good. What is the Loathing stage?

Phrea: Pathetic.

Emily: Pathetic?

Phrea: Yeah, pathetic. The Wrath stage is a drug-fuelled blur. At some point, the rage ends and Fellwyn passes out...usually in the town it is terrorizing. By then, denizens are so terrified that they don't even approach the sleeping monster. Those that do, only serve to disturb its sleep, and Fellwyn has a minor rage and destroys the "Disturber".

Emily: Why doesn't someone just kill Fellwyn?

Phrea: We don't know how. Our weapons are useless. Nothing we do has any damaging effect. Fellwyn just rages out. Guns, swords, bombs, magick...no use. We've tried to cage it...no luck.

Emily: Fuck.

Phrea: Loathing sets in when Fellwyn wakes hungover in the stages of detox. This is when the Pity Party starts.

Emily: Pity Party?

Phrea: Yup. Fellwyn wakes, still slightly raging. Still dangerous but it expects everyone to feel bad for it because it believes addiction is a disease and only a disease. It seeks out enablers and pitiers. Thru some inexplicable magick, it convinces loads of people that it is the greatest victim of them all. That it didn't want to lose itself to Wrath. It was Phleb's fault. Fellwyn will break down in tears and beg for forgiveness. It threatens suicide.

Emily: Suicide? Wouldn't denizens prefer Fellwyn dead?

Phrea: In the Loathing stage, Fellwyn is only Wyn. It's almost as if the Wrath stage separates the monster and the wizard. With my own eyes, I have seen the decency in its being. Sad part is: Wyn remembers not all the raging.

Emily: Like legends of werewolves.

Phrea: Sure. The man turns into a werewolf, slaughters innocents, and wakes the next day with no recollection. Fellwyn is different, tho. Fragments of the Wrath stage linger in Wyn's memory...but it's all distorted. Slanted. Denizens get the chance to approach the wizard...talk to the wizard. The benevolent core of Wyn shines thru. For whatever reason, we all want to forgive. We want to fix.

Emily: Then what?

Phrea: Usually, Wyn agrees to go to rehab. He's gone for weeks and comes back sober. Denizens throw a parade. A huge party. Wyn gives a speech about the dangers of mind-altering substances. He apologizes for the lives lost. Yet, after the parties die down and parades end, normal life rears its head.

Emily: Normal life?

Phrea: Yeah. Shit like work and lawn maintenance. Birthday parties and barbeques. Bills.

Emily: Ah.

Phrea: This is when Wyn and the rest of us realize that the monster never truly left. I think the monster is just dormant after Wrath.

Emily: What happens then?

Phrea: It's always exactly the same. Wyn shows up wherever he is staying with a fifth of vodka in his hand. "Phleb has found me," he will say. Everyone that believed in him is disappointed but Wyn cares not for he is once again an it...Fellwyn. It passes out. Someone lugs it to bed. In the morning, Fellwyn is gone and the Dormancy stage begins.

Emily: Where does it go?

Phrea: We know not. Some believe a forest. Others believe a cave. Still others assume Fellwyn transcends dimensions. What is known is that reality feels less surreal when it is gone. Everyone seems to remember what normal actually is. We remember the Wrath and how denizens died. Years pass. Sometimes generations. We forget what that type of anger feels like. That is until the next moment of Klemlak happens. I cannot explain to you the fear that is growing inside of me.

Emily: I sense it. It seems to emanate from you. Beyond that, I don't feel safe.

Phrea: No one is safe...but yeah, you are in great danger. There is no hiding you.

Emily: I feel sick.

Phrea: Not surprised. Fucked up part is: There's nothing you can take to calm down. Nicotine, alcohol, marijuana, anxiety meds...Fellwyn's Wrath cancels them all out. Its rage is a cancerous concoction of every mind-altering substance known to existence. Anything you take is a step into Fellwyn's world...its state of mind. Even a cup of coffee is an upper. Even a beer after a long day of work...all is a faltering into its state of mind.

[Emily rushes off into the restroom and vomits.]

\-------

It should pain you to find out that both Emily and Phrea died. Fellwyn's rage was devastating. Like a category 5 hurricane hitting with no warning. There are not tears enough to express the sadness of the loss from this Wrath. Yet, what happened because of it was everlastingly detrimental.

During the Loathing stage, Wyn took part in the making of a child. Some dumb bitch actually felt that sorry for him. The child carried on the genetic disposition unto emotionally abusive alcoholism. Eventho Wyn/Fellwyn was never a dad, so to speak, society had to accept Wynborn to be a non-monster. He had no magickal powers.

But like: Denizens had to update the basis for reality, you dig? Life now included non-monster alcoholism. By the time Wynborn was 23, he was a raging asshole. He binged, but nothing like his father. He was too human. Downing more than a fifth of liquor was more than his body could take. He learned that with alcohol, there is always a point where it becomes poisonous. To tread that line...well, he paid for in ways Fellwyn never would.

Being exposed to alcoholism, the townsfolk of Temblario started to rationalize it. They started to rationalize it as a possibility for other folk.

Imagine that...rationalizing unto yourself a genetic disorder you don't have!

[Hysterical, fun-filled laughter.]

Weaker minded folk started losing themselves to addiction. As generations came and went, addiction became more and more prevalent. It was in most families, friendships, jobs...no matter what direction one took, addiction wasn't far. The government blamed the drugs. They blamed bad parenting and ghetto living.

Sad part is: They should have known that the answer is inexplicable. They blamed because blaming is a coping mechanism. We're all robots sometimes. We can't live partially rationally and not be on some sort of autopilot. What's that word...extemporaneous...we improv our ways thru life, basically. Most of reality is unexpected.

Anyway, addiction is ubiquitous and Fellwyn is still in the Dormancy stage. Most believe not in Fellwyn. It is more of a "legend in some parts" kinda thing. If you are into folklore and urban legends, it's common knowledge. Some argue when/if it will return.

Are we genetically inclined unto addiction or is it something wrong with our minds? Something ruined along the way by the tragedies of life...

Wynborn is long dead...but his progeny led to posterity and onward it went. Maybe one day the genetic aspect will get so watered down by breeding that it will basically cease to exist. Perhaps then it will stop affecting denizens and society. Generations will pass and addiction will be forgotten. Thousands of years. Tens of thousands. Then one day a child is born with the addiction disposition in high-gear. The cycle will start over again. Where Fellwyn will be during all this? Probably not around. A threat...but not around.

-The End

14 S.U.I.D.

I would like to think of myself as an optimist...I really would. Surely, I have days when I'm totally happy and my cheer makes others smile. Yet, those days aren't every day. When you are as ugly as me, you don't get to live on rays of sunshine, I guess.

It's not like I have elephantiasis. I'm just not what people would rather see. My face isn't perfectly symmetrical. My teeth are kinda crooked and slightly yellowed. I'm stocky. I mean: I'm 35 and single...I'm a catch, as they say, but only for homely women.

My optimism was failing me so I tried antidepressants...which only made me nauseous. Eventually, my doctor told me to check out the Super-tremendous Ultra-positive Individual Dynamic. I was like: "What is that?!" She told me it was a group of 6 people that do self-help kinda stuff...but not normal self-help stuff. They were a different breed of self-help. I was at my wit's end, so I looked them up.

The Super-tremendous Ultra-positive Individual Dynamic (or S.U.I.D. for short) was world renowned. They had millions of followers on social media. Books. Audio books. Dvds. A tv show. T-shirts. Tote bags...you name it. I watched a few clips online and my doc was right...S.U.I.D. was different than other self-help groups.The way they spoke really enthralled me. They seemed very down to Earth. Not culty at all. Plus, they weren't a horrendously pretty like most famous folk these days.

I mean: I remember how back in the 1900s authors used to look rather homely...nowadays authors look like models that spend hours staring at their reflections.

Not S.U.I.D., tho. Just 4 average-looking guys and 2 average-looking ladies.

I was set to buy one of their books but I knew I shouldn't spend the cash for I was down to 3 pairs of hole-less socks. So I checked the local library's online catalog and they had a S.U.I.D. book that I could borrow for free. The library was only a 25 minute walk from my place, so I hoofed it on over and checked it out.

Life. Changing.

The book really honed in on U (ultra-positivity). It went on and on about how we need to discern between good and bad energies...how even that which is good can be broken down into more and less good. The secret to a Super-tremendous life is keeping only most-good aspects of existence cycling thru your being.

I know that sounds new-age hokey, but that's my explanation of the S.U.I.D. philosophy. Their words are much more real, relatable, and succinct. I swear, they can say more in one sentence or poem than I could with a million words.

I dunno...they really spoke to me.

I wouldn't say that I got obsessed, but I ended up buying a bunch of their books and merch. I watched all the videos. I read all their books. I got an S.U.I.D. tattoo. I met them...

...yes, I met them. Alex, Brenard, Carrie, Dan, Eve, and Filderoo. I met each one. Sure, I had to pay $200 for backstage passes to their assemblings...that's what they call their events: Assemblings. They fill arenas! Stadiums!! Etc. I've gone to 3 assemblings, I paid $40 for the basic ticket...$20 parking...gas...etc....but that was the first assembling only. The 2nd and 3rd, I paid $120+ for each ticket so as to be closer.

You may think that's expensive, but they talk for like 90 whole minutes.

-The End

15 The Criminally Negligent President

I was standing at the podium. I had my notes. I said what I had to say. Some reporter said I should write a book on morality...what is moral...all forms of moral. Define a common morality amongst Americans. They voted me in, I owed it to this mass I preside over to do that. Give them a book a year. Here are my thoughts. This is why I was elected. I am the new, shining star of political genius. This whole scenario was interrupted by some lady. She walked up to the podium looking sickly. I was concerned. She vomited. The crowd was aghast. She told me that she had lethally poisoned herself, it was my fault, I fucked up the economy, and made her life unlivable. She started to convulse. Before medical assistance could arrive, she had died.

Cameras flashing.

I stowed away into the greenroom. Secret Service soon led me to a rear exit where there was a car waiting for me. They drove me home.

I cancelled my engagements for a few hours. I locked myself in a spare room after telling everyone to leave me the fuck alone. I wept. I felt horrible for losing my cool with everyone. I composed myself. I took a shower. I stared at myself in the mirror. I noticed the fabric of guilt all along. Dissociate. I walked out of the room and went to my wife's personal library, where I knew she'd be.

I didn't have to explain anything. I felt no more tears in me. She hugged me. We stayed that way for a multitude of seconds and then I made a statement to the press. Back inside, there were a few things prepared. I chose a diet soda (for my stomach) and a dodo meat sandwich. Such a delicacy. I tried not to think of suicide. Everyone I talked to asked how I was or what it was like. Everyone seemed glad it wasn't them.

At 3am, I snuck out into the world. Took one of my personal guards with me, tho. I guess I snuck away from the family. Either way, I merely needed a blast of cold air and a conversation with a stranger. Told Tony to wait in the car. The store was ¼ windows anyway. Inside, I nodded at the clerk. I headed to the back. Soda, juice, beer...no. No beer now. Not even one. I keep prohibition in effect for the same reason parks are closed at night. I settled on an energy drink because the long-term health effects are unknowable. The clerk gushed cuz I'm his president. I'm glad he makes $8 an hour. He brings home roughly $1100 a month. Who knows with this economy and cut hours...maybe a little less?...he can afford a studio apartment and car insurance. That leaves $200-300 to spend on food, clothes, and whatnot. I mean: That sucks for him but he didn't say much. Seemed awestruck. We raise our kids to be respectful and whatever. I wish someone would bring me the whole of the issue. Not some lunatic that vomits on my shoe, blames me for messing up the country, and dies.

We drive out to the country. Tony and I. We didn't talk. In the cd player is my favorite Emo cd. I sing along. My guard sings. More silence as I stare out the window gazing into the dark...feeling safe with my financial security, health care, and notoriety that gets me a bounty of respect from those that should tell me off. I notice an officer of the Law and I'm glad that tax dollars go to precocious worry. I spend billions on weapons just in case of war (which DOES NOT perpetuate war) as people die of starvation in the hidden corners of the cold that is winter. That cop sits there because, statistically speaking, humans are bound to mess up. Instead of just kindly telling them that they were caught in a speed trap, the Law (which I preside over) says to mulct them and take about 2 points from them. The point system isn't enough. Americans only learn when their meager wages are taken from them.

Take the clerk for instance...he's got $300 to blow on food and coats...why not forgo that for a fine payment because he chanced a yellow light wrongly or didn't catch a speed limit sign in 2 miles? He'll really learn his lesson when all that disposable income he put into a savings account is drained into the local government.

I told my personal driver (who is exempt from all traffic infractions/fines while driving me around) that I know what it's like to be an average, normal American. I thought about getting a motel room...I saw a quaint place but I'm not shelling out a 49.95 + tax dollar bill for 6.5 hours in a studio apartment sans kitchen. One day, motels and hotels will go on a 21-hours-from-X basis. Check in, leave 21 hours later.

We listened to Top 40 radio for a while. Somewhere, there are 2-5 preteen girls having a sleepover, listening to all these oversexualized dance hits interjected with objectified..money sensationalizing...prattle...ugh. I'm glad kids hear that stuff and get to think about the extremities of promiscuity.

How's that for morality?

Music doesn't belong on tv. I mean: You can't stop it from being strewn together for background music in a slutty reality show, but there is no use in showing symphonies, rock concerts, eclectic otherings...audible art does not belong on tv unless it is Country or Hip Hop. Tv is one of the best technological advancement for communication ever and to put videos of all sorts on it would only boost cd sales which would revolutionize the economy so that clerk could make a lot more than minimum wage but an artistic renaissance isn't going to happen in my lifetime.

Preachers say the world ends when my presidency does. That may happen, but music on tv won't. I hope the clerk has a roommate. I mean: how much disposable income does this dude want?

I'm happy that it's night. Someone losing their battle with lousy employment and bill payments would agree. Bill collectors don't call during the night. It's peaceful. Tranquil. Hmph...if someone didn't watch tv or listen to the radio or talk to people, they wouldn't know the country is in shambles. There's no foreign military presence. "There's a serenity out here," I tell Tony. A serenity that doesn't happen in all those major cities where people live in fear of crime...those neighborhoods that are so depreciated that citizens have to guard burnt-out buildings daily cuz they never get knocked down and kids are forever inquisitive with a lack of respect for personal safety. (Oh, to be ignorant once again!!!)

Insurance companies define morality. They offer something most can't afford but the consensus is that we all need it. It doesn't feel like a prestigious privilege to get a physical. A copay isn't much to me...not that I have a copay. 90 days is logical for insurance to kick in at a new job. 3 months. 2160 hours.129,600 minutes where the perpetual momentum of coincidence...where illness can strike as predictably as lightning. Ain't no harm in waiting. Any period of time shorter is ridiculous.

Prostitution is moral...?...Argument is duality. How dare I value sex on an emotional level! How dare I tell a person what to do with their body!! I merely think it's depraved and unnecessary?

Sure, Clerko has a more limited choice in women. Most women want financial stability. Buy her nice clothes and things. Deep down, he wants to. He might love her. She moves onto someone that can afford to take her out on a cheap date once a week. Who wants to wade thru the rest of the economic grossness at a lower class level? Not me.

I have speech writers. If that's not a paradox, what is?

Why don't they just say the stuff themselves? I wouldn't have to. Presiding isn't speech construction. I kinda loom over what's going on. Ancients in my position claimed to be gods. I don't know if I am, but is it true? Is there a way to tell??

The day broke with a rejuvenation of self-esteem. We stopped at a fast food restaurant cuz I had to defecate. Tony blocked the passage in. Sitting there on the toilet, I get a text message from my guard reading: "Whoop! Whoop!! Man, did you poop!!!"

I laugh out loud because it's clever wordplay and a rhyme scheme.

Metered parking isn't a factor for me. Take the car out and it's government plated. Even so, I talk to the judge about a parking ticket..they're letting their president off the hook. And I guess that's another astral aspect to presiding. I think topographically. I see down on these place I go where inches are hundreds of miles at a time. Whether by moonlight or cellphone light, I get where I'm going. I'm usually on a location device. I can't quit my job and it be as anonymous as a waitress, per say. Anywhere I go, there are guards that can be here in a moment's dash. An earshot away is where they stay. They say they'll die for me. I say death is going on live tv in a car driving thru the ghetto waving. They should have metered parking in those depreciated ghettos. Use the change to fix it up. That won't upset the residents at all.

See: We humans quarantine sections of Earth. We trade this for that and say that we own a quadrant, a sector, whatever. It's healthy for the poor to be unable to shop in certain areas. In America, we still love segregation. Your server doesn't have her piercings in. Not allowed. This is "moral". All of my morals cannot be the morals of all. What I'm condoning is the segregation of a social minority that has numbers in the millions.

Atheistically speaking, the ones that are wrong, morally, are the ones that Natural Selection may leave behind. Spiritually speaking, a gap in evil makes way for newer evil. We know not why things happen. We justify certain truths, but not much is certain.

Should the price of copyrighting go up? Funny how some poor clerk songwriter has to pay so much money to own his/her music legally. More paperwork for possessions. Building permits and their price...hm. Presiding is an astral thing. From above, seeing clearly on a local level is hard. Like I already noted, the average person is awestruck by me. It's not like I have tons of time to chew the fat anyway. Some people have something profound to say, but I see it in their eyes that they thought it out...as the cops would say: Premeditated.

We left the restaurant with a free meal. It's weird cuz everyone knew I had just pooped. I am the presidor of this nation on live tv almost every day and I just blew up the bathroom...being handed a bag of hashbrowns and egg sandwiches. They can afford to give me $25 worth of food but so many starve to death. People were taking pictures.

We headed south. It was 9:30am and I couldn't wait for stores to open. I didn't intend on stopping anywhere but the bustle of the usy day contrasts the desolate night as if yellow on brown.

We are an indecisive nation. Laws are horrendously long because simplicity seems tacky. I always tell people that persistence is not the ability to overcome...persistence is the will, not the ability. If one keeps trying at something, will they make it? Not necessarily. People try their whole lives away and never make more than a minimum wages. The system leaves the average lower class person a penny away from destitution. We're populated to the extent that, to support our existence, we need not the help of everyone.

An anarchist radical would argue about the current state of an astrally viewed America.

Does the human brain create problematic situations unwillingly and willingly?

Reality may be shapeable as if clay...symbolically speaking...everyone leaves their mark or indentation, no matter how big or small. Since I am the president, I have to leave a large impact but doing too much would excite the wrong radical into militancy. I could end up dead for making the wrong executive decision. So goes the clerk helping a poor lunatic with no medical insurance whacked out on a cheap crack rock inciting an argument over low-shelf gin prices. I'm glad I have my guards.

Can I force a radical to be comfortable with homosexuals? Sometimes, it seems that the Law is strong-arming common sense into a state of passivity and docile adherence to the whim of whatever quells the concerns of neurotic, aged generations that refuse to adapt...perchance we've all adapted to the extent where we must cease conscious adaptation. I guess, in this sense, evolution and adaptation are equal. Seems we all know what our mothers would tell us to do. Like how one is supposed to return found money. What is karmic, legal, and tolerant simultaneously? What doesn't step on the toes of the working class that strives for $14.99+tax an hour??

Most people aren't historians. We learn from the past but live in the present. We know not every single past and all the lessons. It's almost impossible to explain to someone what gradual changes have happened since the early 1980s. We all notice trends in the material. We hear times change in modern sonic art.

The inevitable is on its way.

Then again, I'm getting ahead of myself.

America is hidden by its buildings. To newer generations, a horizon will be incomplete without something a human created.

Doomsday theories are ingrained in we Americans like the religious bias on our money.

Life is better lived from one peak to the next.

A homogeneously stable life may be fiction.

The regular people die of bad hearts and defective brains because this System, which I preside over, fails a lot of people.

From time to time, amazing and unexpected things happen. Rock music is revolutionized. A sports star breaks a record as if evolution hadn't predicted it. A reality show of the skankiest sort catches the eye...fixated...unable to look away...turn the channel to news and it's reports of local shootings and not-so-local shootings. If there is a dead body and a van can get there, it's on tv. What else would they report on? Turn the channel and it's me...presiding.

What is morality?!?

What is presiding?

I choose...yes or no...do I?...would the nation...

There are a ton of no-brainer decisions that I make almost non-consciously. The hard part is the repercussions. If this is bad, that isn't. I cut this, someone loses their job over there. People hand me crooked, backward bills and I've no choice but to approve or deny. Who isn't altruistic? Who knows best?? Obviously, the collective effort is failing. Perhaps everyone is trying to prove their points collectively. Their opinions. All are trying to achieve Ego simultaneously. (Are you getting this?)

So, what becomes of Clerky? Existential life. Lacking love. Lacking attention. Lacking stimulus. Life is a perpetuated window-shopping escapade of the lousiest sort. Depression turns to clinical depression and he can't hide it from his parents for more than 2 days. No returned calls for a better job. Bill collectors call. His sleep compromised. The edginess affects the depression. No one likes to have first impressions with the suicidally depressed. Maybe a psychologist, maybe...but you'd have to pay them hundreds of dollars+tax for 45 minutes of consultation. I like doctors. Evolution proves that the wealthy are genetically superior. We learn to obtain some human made item. We horde it and we don't die precociously of regret/worry over money issues. It's never a factor in relationships. Right now, while everyone is losing out and going broke(r), I literally have no bills. Everything is paid for by taxpayers or it's given to me as if endorsed. So, what everyone must understand is that it is impossible for me to understand anyone's plight. I could go live in a box in tha hood and smoke crack...but someone...some team of doctors...would nurse me back to health. Unless I do something crazy like rape or murder (first-hand)...as long as there is an America, I am immortal. My body may die but even an impeached president has his face engraved in at least a dozen stones.

These presidors.

I ended up doing nothing about the morality issue. People still ask me about the suicidal woman. They always will. After I'm dead, the story will linger. Someone famous will be a close relative to her. They'll get 15 minutes of fame and time will wear on.

Even if the country breaks out in another civil war and 60% of Americans die, the generations that come after will know about me. All they'll have to do is scratch the surface of knowledge. Will I have played a part to a horrible future? Does it even matter if it may never come to pass??

Tho, it is in us all to look into what's left of our imaginations and presume tomorrow will be much like today, but better. I don't see a godless future, but I see the Americanized god being put in its place. We'll still presume the economy would completely fall apart if the year-end holiday season went away. Yet another minority voicing its opinion too loudly to ignore. We appease them because upon learning to be so loud, they become part of Us. We are the ones that speak loud enough for the regular people to hear. May they follow our greatness and forget that, above all, we are all flawed as I am.

-The End

16 Nan: Exile

Nan was forced to leave. All she had were the clothes on her back, some gum, and her typewriter in its case. Ethel was the last to see her. Nan sat on her typewriter case and waited for the bus. Ethel was out riding her brother's bike.

Nan: Hey, Ethel

Ethel: Yo. You look down.

Nan: Finally exiled. As horrible as this is, it makes me feel better.

Ethel: If you are floating your own boat, you get the discretion to do your own will and be your ego.

Nan: No one will talk to me. It's like they all are less burdened by everyone else's emotions thanks to breakthrus in modern Psychology. It leaves more time to experience life. Less contemplation...but it's left a complacent hole in the hearts of everyone on Earth.

Ethel: You know I'm 9, right?

Nan: Yes, and you've learned societal dogma so well.

Ethel: I'm head of my class.

Nan: I know! All the posters all over town let us all know.

Ethel: My daddy says that his riches are best spent on family.

Nan: You can run along now, Ethel. Tell your folks that I say hey.

Ethel: I will. I hope you feel better.

Nan: Thanks. Be careful on the way home.

The bus came and Nan left Wyandotte behind. She had the smallest bit of caffeine left and a ride that could last forever if she played her cards right. In her medicine pack she had a small amount of marijuana and an even smaller amount of tobacco. Over the years, she had found some money along the edges of Wyandotte. $42.79. Everyone had told her to forget about that garbage. Didn't use money in Wyandotte...no one did.

Some said her reluctance to give it up fueled her desire to end up exiled. The townspeople blamed many things: themselves, toxic waste hidden under the roller skating rink, etc.

It didn't take Nan long to find some desperate, ugly dude to shack up with for a while. His name was Elbow. That was his birth-given name: Elbow. Nan didn't mind him. He was well-dressed, had manners, and wanted to help out right away. He didn't even initiate sex...Nan just needed to be held.

She woke up the next morning and Elbow was still asleep. The apartment was clean, but it was a dump. Ceiling tiles were stained. The refrigerator didn't work. It had a character, but Elbow had no interior design creativity. It was a functional apartment for the stoner musician. He worked 10am-7pm, 5 days a week. This gave Nan the time to write and be alone. The days passed quickly.

Time has a way of slipping away when one is a writer. Even if living involves mooching off some stranger, then fine. She couldn't connect with him. He didn't like to read. He read her stuff, but couldn't compare it to anything but tv plots.

She had won some money playing poker and was up to $73 when the local pet shop hired her. Elbow wasn't told and once her first check came in, she bolted. A new friend at work had a boathouse that she could stay in for a few weeks...free of charge.

The boathouse was her favorite place to live. Even leaving to go get groceries or to work bothered her. There was something profound about being that close to the water. So much was written in those few weeks. Sure, it would be 20 years before anyone read it, but Nan knew that she'd be an unknown most of her life.

She knew it was time to leave the boathouse. Her writing was still in fury-mode, but darkness was taking the stories too many bad places. It had started to rain, but she didn't mind. Off into the horizon she went with her typewriter.

The rain got worse. A cold front moved in. Before she left, she took a couple painkillers along with her morning bowl of pot. Something went haywire in the brain and body departments...she wigged out, vomited on herself, broke a finger, roamed for hours...she saw a building off in the distance. There was light in a front window. Nan ran at the door full-speed.

That's how she came to live at that church for all those years. She was pregnant with Elbow's kid and she had damaged something in her brain. It may have been a front...she may have been lying to herself...but, Nan wasn't quite the same.

Her writing became really weird. The nuns read all she wrote and threw away all the terrible stuff. She told the sisters that her writing should be published under the name Angelica Bibliton. The nuns allowed this and so started the Angelica Bibliton saga of books.

Even to this day, lots of religious folk love the Angelica books. Nan created Angelica out of necessity. Angelica Bibliton was the first character killed in Nan's first Nan Palmer book. Every Angelica book was a twisted labyrinthe of riddles that seemed good at first. Once Nan's first book hit shelves, everyone soon realized that it was all a big hoax...among other things.

She was called the Antichrist. No less than 7 people tried to kill her. Most of the Angelica Bibliton books were burned...but, like I said: Many people still believe that Nan's better side is Angelica...that as Nan Palmer, a demon took her over. There is a small mass of people that think the Angelica books are as sacred as any holy text.

It took Nan 15 years to leave that church. When she did, she took a small fortune but left most of her earnings to the church. She bought a house and published the first Nan Palmer book herself. When that snowballed into the highest-selling book of history, she used the money to publish everything she wrote over the years. There were 47 different Nan Palmer books published within a year.

Nan saw Ethel just one last time before she died. It was a cool April morning. The sun came up but storm clouds made it look dark. Half of traffic had their lights on, the other half didn't. Nan sat in a restaurant drinking what would be her last cup of coffee ever. Ethel walked in and noticed her.

Ethel: Nan Palmer...is that you? It's me: Ethel Maybelle.

Nan: So it is.

Nan stood up to hug Ethel, but got stabbed to death instead. Apparently, Ethel resented their last conversation all her life. She found life empty...there was always a point where people didn't want to go passed, as far as talking about feelings goes. Over the years, the part of her that was neglected grew and grew. She was a truly lonesome person. Doctors said that Ethel didn't have long to live. Bad heart. She was told that if a really stressful/depressing situation came to pass, it would probably take her life.

Ethel's family believes that when she saw Nan, her heart stopped right then. On auto-pilot only a soldier could relate to, she killed someone that she thought deserved it.

Nan Palmer's books live on in the hearts and minds of her readers. No matter what it means culturally and historically, I will speak the truth about her until I die. She will always be my mother...and it's my burden to understand her.

-The End

17 Religious Symbolism Not To Be Taken Seriously

I'm the type of person that has nothing nice to say about a lot of things. I'd keep my fucken mouth shut but that's what people want to know: What do I think of everything that pisses me off? I've become an irate and bitter person, but oh well. It happens to the best of us. The happier you are, the dumber you are...that's my motto.

What I don't tell most people is that my parents didn't pay a debt to a demon, so said demon collected. Its payment...the only collateral my parents had: Their first born son.

As much as I should blame them, I don't. Love is a motherfucker...it makes ya do stupid, stupid shit. Anyway, when the demon collected me, it came in the middle of the day. It beat me, raped me, and explained to me that for the rest of my life my existence would suck. Nothing worth killing myself over but I wouldn't smile much.

On my 13th birthday, the demon let me go. My parents were happy to see me but once they saw the pentagram branded on my arm, they began to reject me. They make me wear long-sleeve shirts...even on the hottest days. It was as if I was a baby bird touched by human hands being rejected by its mother.

Thing is: After all those years of torture, I didn't even know what familial love was. Objectively, I understood the dynamics/mechanics of it all. I wasn't normal and the shrinks couldn't help. My brother and sister were just as innocent as clergy.

My folks told the neighbors that I was a distant cousin whose parents died. They took me in and whatnot. The shame that would have befallen then had my true identity come to light would have been too detrimental. The demon that took me was known all thru-out town. As long as I wasn't me, they were still victims. They had sympathy.

17 years have passed. I've long since moved out and speak to my folks regularly enough. All the years apart and me being so different has left us at an impasse. They don't "get it" and perhaps I don't either. I've not made a traditional-enough life and they can't help but look down on that. Yet, it's not my fault.

The demon really fucked me up. It's hard enough coming to age in a time when psychological thrillers are the only good movies out...couple that with demonic tutelage and it's a wonder I can even sit still. The demon would lecture me on the overall futility of humanity. It told me that humans treat each other like shit and create workplaces to do it in. Hate is justified, practiced, and a vastly accepted form of comedy. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

"Serial killers like classical music. Kids that shoot up schools and burn down churches love Metal. Rap music is an extension of gang violence...if you are an idiot in a ghetto gang, 10:1 you listen to Rap. The most popular rappers are uneducated, swindling pimps that exploit women and glorify violent gangs. AND, no one has the balls to do a fucken thing about it."

I remember that lecture because the demon recited it dozens of times. I tried to take its teachings with a grain of salt, so to speak, but every word was true. The demon didn't lie to me.

Yet, there's a difference between reading a book about Michigan's scenic areas and one on Michigan's haunted areas. There's a difference between watching horror movies and romantic comedies before bed. The demon may not have lied to me but it never told me one happy thing. It told me my parents were worthless scumbags that valued their own laziness and stinginess over their child. It told me rockstars are puppets that do what they're told.

Hateful people make the world go round. Politicians hate. Teachers hate. Most people are completely fucking greedy. It told me that I was better off in a dungeon being tortured than out in the real world...and most nights, I acquiesce in agreement.

The world is full of barbaric, racist, slovenly idiots. The average person has always been a dipshit and always will be. Life is a paradox. You're supposed to do opposite things simultaneously. You name it...be fair and unfair. Be nice and stingy. Be rational and conservative. The list goes on. Don't compromise your beliefs and work at a corporation.

The demon told me that the best people lose all perspective when working at a corporation. After so many years, they forget a part of themself and fill the void with crooked heuristics and sociological bullshit. They begin to believe that work is an extension of family. Love goes from being a shared experience to the sacrifices made to maintain a job. Money was the best idea Satan ever had. Even better than introducing crack to the depressed, poverty-stricken ghetto folk or opioids to the insignificant masses.

By far the most truthful thing the demon explained to me is that I wouldn't be able to handle what I know. Stupid people would drive me nuts. Holding down a job would be next to impossible. I'd have revolutionarily valid thoughts but society would never trust me cuz of me being raised by a demon. The media would uncover the truth and people would completely reject me.

The day before the demon let me go, it told me: "Now that you are not normal, your only hope is to learn how to pretend to be normal." I've struggled with that ever since. I've had to hide who I am. I've had to settle in with friends that are everything I hate about humanity. I have to act like corporate ass-kissers and reality tv stars are not only right, but role models too.

The demon never apologized but told me that it's 'not fair'. Had my parents paid up, it wouldn't have known the extent of torture it was capable of. Yet, had my folks been wealthy enough, the debt would have never amassed. It also told me that there is only a small chance I'd ever learn to cope with it all.

I guess that chance is worth living for. Up until this point, I haven't learned to cope. It bothers me but much of this life is hopelessly existential. The demon raising me has led me to an uncanny ability to not give a shit. I may have vehement opinions, but I truly don't give a shit. The problem with people is that they do care. They are never going to change but they still hope. They concoct exclusivities in hopes of mass synergy. People are fucking stupid and lack any kind of sense of humor worth paying attention to.

See...it's not what the demon told me. It's what it left me to figure out on my own. It's like how everything you learn in college only makes you a know-it-all fucker until you finish your stay. Outside of the constant influence, what you know helps put the world together (in your head). So what if how you put it together is different than others...no one gets it right away. If you think you got it right, you put it together wrong.

-The End

18 Dartanius
Chapter 1

Dartanius kinda came out of nowhere, really. We had our little Punk scene. Many people came and went. Friends of friends. Acquaintances. Strangers that caught wind of the venues. You see a lot of people when random bands play. They bring their audience, who stay until their friend's band is done with their set. But, there was a definite group of us. There was always a show going on or a practice to attend, if you were in with the right people.

What I'm getting at is that I remember the first time I seen Dartanius at a show. The Blip Fakes, my band at the time, was closing the show. It was at The Eagle Wing. He showed up with Cara, who was at most shows. I partied with her a bunch of times. But that's how it went...some bands do a show and afterward we splinter off into parties or get-togethers. Some just go home. Like Randy, that guy never parties. He knows more about Punk than anyone I know...save the partying.

Anyway, The Blip Fakes are playing a show, I say hi to Cara, and meet Dartanius. Right off the bat, he seemed different than anyone I've ever met. Even when compared to the fuckers that are part of the scene, he was odd. Not like creepy odd, just out-there. Cara said she met him at a bar the night before.

She always dated the most unique people. It's almost as if she brings oddity out of people. Maybe she allows them to be weird. Maybe she's extremely weirder than I know and her weirdness affects other people. I dunno. Regardless, she's super cool and has never once looked at me strangely for anything I say or do.

I didn't have much time to chat. Right before I noticed Cara, I got a text from my bandmates saying that they were almost to The Wing with the bulk of our equipment, but as Dartanius spoke, he made it abundantly clear that he wasn't a Punk fanboy...like Randy.

That happens. Some of the most dedicated Punk fans only like a few Punk bands. I asked if he was a musician and he just kinda nodded. It wasn't much of a conversation, but Cara has a way of directing a moment. We ended up talking while Dartanius kept kinda quiet. Soon enough, I had to help the other Fakes with the equipment.

Thru-out the night, I'd see those 2 hanging out and whatnot. Good vibes. No issues at the show. Lively crowd. At one point, I was behind the merch table. Dartanius was looking at all the shit and I gave him a free sticker. Honestly, it was about the most typical thing, bering around Dartanius that first night.

A week later, The Fakes are playing at Ramshackles. We were opening for some national act...who I won't name because they were rockstar dicks...but it was a packed show. I notice Cara and Dartanius and it's obvious that they're a couple, not just getting to know one another or whatever.

I go up. Say hi. Dartanius hugs me. Not all that weird, but it was kinda obvious that the 2 of them were on something. I gave Cara a WTF? look and she pantomimed putting LSD on her tongue. Of course, I chuckle. The conversation was all over the place...but I dig that kinda shit. Life is pointless if not peppered with nonsense.

Our set was good. The crowd was really into us, which seemed to upset the headliners. Our manager, Sickly, told us to bail after our set. She'd stay and get out cash and whatnot. As much as I love playing shows, sometimes it's best to just get the fuck out of some places. We load up our equipment, say some goodbyes, and leave.

A few hours later, we're at our loft. The equipment is unloaded but just heaped into a lazy pile in the corner. It's the 4 of us, their girlfriends, Jake and his boyfriend Josh, and this middle-aged dude named Mark that just can't get enough of our band. Some of us were drinking. Some were smoking. That's it, tho. More of a chill gathering than a full-blown party.

Look at my phone and I've got 2 texts. One is from Sickly, she's on her way. No hassle from the club. Good...okay...see you soon. The other text is from Cara. "What's up?" Partying at the loft, wanna swing by? "Yeah." I go back to talking about the show with Danny, Mel, and Gravy. It's always weird how I'm usually talking to them. You'd think that I'd want to talk to other people besides my band members, but nope. Oh well, it's best not to question natural inclinations...especially when answers aren't available.

Some time passes and I've taken part in the smoking of 3...no wait, 4 joints. I'm way up there but not at the point where I need to sit down and be quiet for awhile. Sickly has arrived, distributed everyone's share of the money, and deposited the band's share in the safe.

More time passes and Cara shows up with Dartanius and this chick Sally, who we all call Board. Why we call her Board? No one knows. Some of the best nicknames are pointless ones. Seeing Board, I'm a bit relieved. She's straight-edge and is always down to be a designated driver. The state of mind Cara and Dartanius were in at the show...there's no point in driving. Eventho I know Cara can do it, driving while tripping isn't the most ideal activity.

Our group of 10 is now 14 and everything is going great. Besides Dartanius, the people at the loft are the ones usually at the loft after a show. Any kind of apprehension I felt about a newbie washed away. Even under the influence of weed, I felt no paranoia about him.

Conversations move from here to there. I chat in a group with Dartanius. I chat in a smaller group with him. I can't help but notice that life is kinda pulling us off into a 1 on 1 conversation, so I take the initiative. I ask him if he wants to go outside and smoke with me. He says yeah. Outside:

Me: Not to be a dick, but are you cool to smoke?

D: Oh...yeah. We dropped like 7 hours ago.

Me: When I'm on L, I really enjoy smoking. Gravy can't, tho. We tripped after our first EP was finished and he hit a joint twice and it sent him spinning.

D: My brother was the same way. I can handle it, tho.

Me: It seems intensity is relative.

D: Quite. Thanks for being conscientious, tho.

Me: I can be overly thoughtful. I just didn't want you to feel pressured or whatever.

D: Naw...I get it. So, what's your story?

Me: I'm just some dude that plays guitar. I've a job not worth talking about. My parents live in Memphis. Only child. Played guitar since I was 14. Divorced. Pothead. You?

D: I'd rather not say, I guess. Bailed on my hometown. Dartanius isn't my real name. For the past few weeks I've been sleeping in my car or motels. Driving from town to town...state to state. Meeting people.

Me: Looking for a place to belong?

D: That's one way of looking at it.

Me: So what do you play?

D: A little bit of this, little of that. Mainly guitar.

Me: What kind of guitar(s) do you have?

D: None. Sold em all.

Me: Guess you really needed to bail.

D: Well, you know what they say...

Me: ...what do they say?

D: Where I come from, that is the saying: "You know what they say..."

Me: Oh. Lends itself to an incomplete life.

D: Right on.

At that point, I lit the joint and as we smoked we didn't say much. It was early November so it was kinda cold...and with cold comes a different kind of silence.

D: How much of this do you wanna smoke?

Me: All of it. I brought 3 joints...all from this bag I'm finishing off. It's called: Texas Wallaby.

D: It's very heady.

Me: Yeah, I dig it. How long you plan on staying in town?

D: No plans.

Me: Well, if you need any smoke, let me know. I'm a caregiver.

D: Good to know. Do you only play 6 strings?

Me: Mainly. I have a ukulele that I mess around with now and again. I've a nice 7 string at home but I mainly use it to record my solo shit.

D: Oh yeah, what's that like?

Me: Esoteric guitar nerd stuff. Computer music. Nondescript pothead shit.

D: Yeah, it seems most guitarists do something of that nature these days. Ever get into the 8 strings?

Me: Had one for a few months. Felt too much like a bass. 7s are low enough for me. I have my dad's old bass, so If I need to record anything in lower registers, I just use that.

D: Sounds cool.

Me: Yeah, it is. Gravy is always pestering me to let him use it for shows but he beats the shit out of instruments. My dad's bass is vintage...nice condition. I let Gravy use it in the studio and when we're chilling at my place, but that's all.

D: What's your dad say about your music?

Me: He died when I was a kid.

D: That sucks.

Me: Meh...things happen.

D: I was into 6s for the longest time. Then, shit got tricky. Life went sour. Luck turned bad. I had a few nice 6 strings, but didn't play them. A buddy of mine traded me his 8 string for a 2x12 combo I had. After I got it set up and whatnot, it totally clicked with me. I didn't even care that Punk is traditionally a 6 string thing.

Me: Traditional Punk...ha.

D: Yeah...I know! Anyway, it's all I played for months. Then shit really hit the fan. I sold everything I had and took off.

Me: Here's to leaving it all behind.

D: Kampai!

Chapter 2

Next thing we know, Jake and Josh disrupt our conversation with their departure. Goodbyes are said. Dartanius and I go back to the loft and from there the night swirls out of reality. I woke up with my head on my guitar case, my jacket as my blanket. Gravy, Danny, and Mel are asleep. Everyone else is gone. I check my phone and it's 2:30pm. Quietly, I leave and go home. Essentially, I just go back to my life.

A few days later, I'm sitting at my apartment post-work, noodling around on guitar when Dartanius calls me.

Me: Hello.

D: Hey. How's it going?

Me: No complaints. Had a non-eventful day at work. Sitting around right now. What's up for you?

D: Not much. I was wondering if you had any smoke I could obtain.

Me: Yeah. Definitely...I've got some things you could check out.

D: You available now?

Me: Yep. I have practice at 8pm, so if you can get here before 7:30, that'll be good.

D: Cool.

So I texted him my address and he shows up about a half hour later. I invite him in. Offer him a water. We go to the back room. I tell him to sit on the futon and I grab some jars from the closet.

Me: First off, how much are you looking to get?

D: What can $100 get me?

Me: You can get a quarter of this or this...half and half, whatever...or, you can get an eighth of this stuff.

D: Is it that much better?

Me: Sure. I don't know about you, tho...but I like to smoke until I'm decently saturated. This shit...called Quambo...is more for those people...those days when a few hits will suffice.

D: Those are good days.

Me: Good highs, too. Personally I like to be baked when I smoke and that means blowing down a joint or 2.

D: And that's what the other 2 are for?

Me: Oh yeah. Don't get me wrong...it's still quality stuff. I usually don't even fuck around with that $25 an eighth shit anymore. Let the teenagers deal with that.

D: I remember those days.

Me: If you're going with one of the other 2, I suggest Troopaloo. I just got it the other day. It's much fresher. It has a similar high as the Bellball but it makes music sound a bit crazier.

D: Troopaloo it is, then.

Me: Fantastic. I've been smoking the Quambo all day, like I said...so if you want to partake in some of that, we can hit this bong.

So we did just that. In fact we smoked 2 bowls. I put my MP3 player on random and we chilled.

D: I can see what you mean about this Quambo stuff being next level.

Me: Oh yeah. I've smoked better, but I like to have a different variety, if I can. At least 2 levels. A lower one for average days and a really quality bud for those sporadic days of lunacy.

D: Yeah. I get it. I feel like a stoned fool right now.

Me: That's the point of Quambo. My boss left early and I was stuck in the back all day so I toked up during lunch.

D: What do you do?

Me: I work at a pizza place.

D: You like it there?

Me: Yeah, I do. Sometimes I feel like a loser but I'm in a band, so a career isn't what I'm looking for. I've worked at Schmucko's for like 10 years. I'm not hemorrhaging money, but I make decent money. I'm not in debt. I get decent bonuses a couple times a year.

D: You have a nice apartment.

Me: After my ex and I divorced, I moved here. It's far more affordable than you'd think. It looks nice because I've been collecting nice shit for years. What was your last place like?

D: I was living with someone. I had a few guitars and clothes but that was about it.

Me: Living amongst other people's shit?

D: Exactly. I think that's why I up and bolted.

Me: Makes sense. Chattel doesn't define the self but it is somewhat an extension.

D: I never really settled into a job. I was feeling my way around when the economy collapsed back in the early 2000s. Companies didn't want soul-searchers and all the bullshit jobs were taken by people needing 2nd jobs.

Me: I'm glad that shit is over. Shrub was a terrible president.

D: He was. His whole family can kiss my ass.

Me: Here, here.

D: Even to this day, I haven't figured life out. My hometown reputation is fucked. My resume is laughable.

Me: So you just got fed up and left?

D: Yeah...it wasn't my only option but it seemed the most liberating.

At that point, the Quambo rendered me speechless. Perhaps it was just a typical lull in conversation, but I found myself staring at a section of the baseboard in the room that had paint drizzled on it. One of my favorite songs was on and I was entranced.

I snapped back to reality-enough and noticed Dartanius staring at my 7 string. I told him to play it, if he wanted. I offered to plug it into my practice amp but he said he'd rather play it acoustically. As I watched him play, it was obvious that he was good. Far better than most people I've encountered.

D: Is this your only guitar with a whammy bar?

Me: Yeah. Playing Punk...it's like: I just want to be aggressive and not worry about shit going out of tune. Both my 6 strings are hardtail. I was never much of a fan of whammy bars.

D: Me neither. Too much hassle to experiment with alternate tunings.

Me: Right. Story goes, tho: I had a hardtail 7. After exploring tunings, I found standard to be ideal. I liked the 10-56s. Got rid of it. Then, after getting a surprisingly large Xmas bonus at work, I bought that from this dude I know. I told myself to use it to approach music differently.

D: It's also a pain to play Punk when the volume is that close to the strings.

Me: Exactly. It's a guitar for playing proficiently ideal. Not letting loose on stage in Punk Rock ferocity.

D: Is that how you envision your stage presence?

[hysterical laughter ensued]

Me: What you got going on tonight? Wait...where are you staying?

D: Um...honestly, I had no plans. Some nights I stay at a motel. Other nights I don't sleep. I drive around for hours.

Me: Sounds arty. You can come to practice if you want.

D: Okay.

Me: I don't know if anyone will be there besides the band. We probably won't even pay attention to you but it's something to do. You can bring the 7 string along if you want.

D: It's not necessary.

Me: Nah...trust me. We'll ignore you. We've had many people over and we just ignore fuckers. It's kinda funny, in a sense. I'll go grab the case from the other room. Finish off that bowl if you want.

We got ready and left. I told Dartanius to pick out a cd...he chose some crazy-ass Metal cd I found at a party. So, for 20ish minutes I got to listen to screaming, polyrhythms, distortion, and chaos...which was good since The Blip Fakes' music is more groove-oriented Punk than bottled insanity. Dynamics make life better.

We arrive and find Danny, his lady Etta, Mel, and his lady Pretty Betty standing outside smoking cigarettes.

Me: Hey fuckers. You guys ready for this?

Danny: I dunno...did you finish composing the new song yet?

Mel: Yeah, I got some shit I needed off my chest and I can't do so until I know where the music is going.

Me: I worked something out.

Mel: Finally. It's been 3 fucken weeks.

Me: You can't force inspiration.

Mel: Sure, but your writer's block is delaying my inspiration.

Etta: Cry baby.

Mel: No one asked you, Etta.

Etta: I didn't know this was a conversation I needed to be asked to join.

Mel: Smartass.

Etta: Dumbass.

Pretty Betty: When are we going in? I'm getting cold.

Etta: I told you to bring a jacket.

P.B.: But I didn't plan on standing outside. C'mon, Mel...let's go in.

Mel: Okay. See you guys in a few. Nice to see you again, Dartanius.

D: Same here.

Danny: What have you 2 been up to?

Me: Well, Dartanius stopped by to purchase some weed.

Danny: Did he let you try that Quambo shit?

D: Yeah. I'm so fucking high right now.

Danny: I believe it. Etta and I smoked a fat bowl of it and went to a haunted house.

Etta: I don't know what the fuck we were thinking.

Danny: It was a really good haunt, firstly. Confusing, disorienting. Then, when that Quambo really took hold, I was so turned around I didn't even know I was with Etta.

Etta: If Dan wasn't in front of me, I would have lost my shit.

D: Sounds like an intense time.

Etta: It was. What's with the guitar case? Joining the band?

D: No. I was told to bring it just in case I get bored.

Danny: I didn't even know you played.

D: Ever since I was a teen.

Danny: That's cool.

Me: It's time to go in.

We practiced for an hour or so. As usual, we didn't pay much attention to our guests. Pretty Betty and Etta sat on the couch, sometimes chatting, sometimes fucking around with their phones. Dartanius sat on the floor playing my guitar. I seen him kinda jamming along. They seemed content.

The new song got worked on. The guys liked what I came up with. Mel worked on lyrics/melodies. He never uses a mic until he's got shit worked out. We play, he sings into the noise. Oh well, it works for him. At some point, we'll take a break and he'll go to his car with his tape recorder. Comes back with finished lyrics that he almost never edits.

So it was no surprise when he took off when we took a break. Leave the artist to their process. Unfortunately, that left Pretty Betty without her Mel. She's a total control freak. I try not to judge. Lots of people don't look like Punk fans, but are. This one chick in the scene, Kelly G., is an underwear model. No body mods. Looks like a boring actress but knows more Punk and Metal than most guys I know.

Pretty Betty sucks, tho. She may have the potential to be a viable part of the scene one day, but for now she's just a cunt. I know that I shouldn't say that about someone but she's always inconvenienced by the scene. It's like: She's one of those chicks that wants to date a rockstar or at the very least some dude whose band always packs bars. I shared a joint with her once and she fucked around on the internet via her phone the whole time.

Mel really likes her, tho. Problem is that I have this feeling it's gonna come down to either her or the band. I wish Pretty Betty was more like Etta. Seriously, one time...Danny couldn't make it to practice. I told her that she wasn't obligated to stay. She looked at me...straight-faced and said: "Why in the fuck would I need Danny to be here and enjoy myself?" And that's why love her. I mean: That night it was just me and Gravy working on a progression and Mel adding his 2 cents...and Etta just chilled. Didn't make anyone feel nervous or anything.

Pretty Betty, on the other hand, doesn't even seem to like anyone but Mel. When he goes to piss, she usually goes outside. I mean: It sucks for her that she doesn't feel comfortable but it's like she assumed that since we have a bit of a Pop Punk vibe that we'd be analogous to those tv bands. Blech. We're not. I dunno...the whole Pretty Betty thing sends my mind reeling.

During the break, we all sat on the floor and passed around a joint. It's about the only time Pretty Betty is cool.

P.B.: I bet Mel is coming up with something amazing. All his stuff is amazing.

Me: Yeah, he's good. He's not the strongest vocalist but what he writes is powerful.

Danny: I listen more to his flow. It's not really about the words.

P.B.: His words move me.

Etta: Fucking gag me, Betty. You love him. We get it.

P.B.: You just don't understand love.

Etta: You're fucking obsessed with him. That's not love.

P.B.: You don't get it.

Etta: Yeah, I do. Watch...Danny, I love you.

Danny: Love you too, babe.

Etta: See. Didn't have to get all stupidly googley-eyed over it.

P.B.: Our love is different, Etta.

I took a drag and handed it to Dartanius.

Me: Is this what people talk about in circles where you're from?

D: Not usually. Maybe back when I was in junior high.

Me: You started smoking that early?

D: I wasn't a stoner back then, but yeah. 7th grade.

P.B.: Where are you from?

D: Michigan.

P.B.: I went there once.

Pretty Betty has this way of making everything about herself. It's not just her pointing out that she's had similar experiences in her life...it's her dying for attention.

P.B.: Yeah, me and my family vacationed at the U.P. one summer.

D: It's nice up there.

Gravy: Did anyone bring any beer?

Me: There should be some in the fridge.

Gravy: I thought I saw Josh drink it all the other night.

Me: No, he brought that swill-ass craft beer. Remember?

Gravy: Oh yeah.

Etta: Is there a Punk scene round where you're from?

D: Kinda. There are bands that play but they're...how do I put this...fuckers that want to be their heroes.

Danny: Copycats?

D: Somewhat. Surely, I've not seen every band play but they seem like they aren't doing music for music's sake. Their Punk is idealistic in an idealistic way.

P.B.: I don't get it.

D: It's like: They want to be Punk because it's something worthy of being...not because it's something they are

P.B.: But you can't be something you aren't.

Etta: Some people try, tho.

P.B.: What's that supposed to mean?

Etta: Nothing. You're paranoid.

Honestly, it seemed like Etta was talking shit about Pretty Betty. The role of girlfriend to a band member is sacred. A band works because the personalities get along. Band members are best friends. The girlfriends/wives of band members have to get along. Supposed to be like family. Ever since Mel started bringing Pretty Betty around, Etta has been struggling not to punch her. "She just says the dumbest shit," she told me once. It's true, too

Before Etta and Pretty Betty could talk anymore, Mel walked in the room. Of course, Pretty Betty shot up and frollicked over to greet him with a kiss. I looked at Etta and she pretended to dry-heave. Danny laughed. Dartanius looked uncomfortably confused. Gravy was shotgunning a beer. We all kinda turned our attention elsewhere.

Next thing we hear:

Mel: I'm not taking you home.

P.B.: But I want to go.

Mel: Then call one of your friends. I'm not leaving.

P.B.: But she makes me feel uncomfortable.

Mel: I don't fucking give a shit. She's one of my best friends.

P.B.: But I love you.

Mel: I don't think you do. I think you think you do

P.B.: I'm not delusional. If I think I do, I do.

Mel: That makes no fucking sense, Betty.

I laughed. Loudly. Everyone else was pretending to mind their own business...I couldn't help it, tho. Pretty Betty shot me a disgusted look. I looked away. She looked back to Mel.

P.B.: And you're not going to do anything about that?

Mel: Nope.

P.B.: Then take me home, we're done!

Mel: No. I'm not leaving. Call your sister.

At that point, Etta cracked up.

P.B.: Shut your mouth, Etta!

Before Etta could stand up, Danny put his hand on her arm and she calmed down.

Mel: You have to go. If you can't find a ride, I'll pay for a fucking cab. You can hang out in the hallway since I know you didn't bring a fucking coat. But you can't stay here.

P.B.: Mel...

Mel: I need you to leave now.

She left. The room was dead silent.

Etta: Stupid bitch.

Mel: Please, Etta...just don't.

More silence. Diminishing tensions. Then, Gravy burped. Everyone laughed.

Gravy: So, dear frontman...what's the new song about?

Mel: Breaking up with Betty.

Gravy: As if we didn't see that coming.

I've not heard from, heard of, or seen Pretty Betty since.

Chapter 3

Practice ends. We feel accomplished. A poison seems worked from our existences. The new song sounds good. Surely, it'll take many more practices until it's cohesive and worthy of being played live, but it's always a good feeling to have a new completion. Mel recorded some of the takes and, per usual, he'll email them to us. Dartanius and Etta were outside, so we smoked a quick bowl between the band. When we finish, I venture outside to see how my friends are doing. I walk into:

D: I just spent so much time unemployed and worried about my future that all my optimism was gone. I was beyond suicidal.

Etta: Beyond suicidal?

D: Yeah. I remember violently hating myself. I've got the scars to prove it. Everyone looked at me like I was a lousy failure. There was no semblance to be found in anyone. At first, I thought self-harm would help.

Etta: Help how?

D: Like: Be a noticeable cry for help. But no. It just made others uneasy around me. Therapy was a fucken joke. The doctors had no clue what Punk is or was. How can you help someone when you have no clue what their culture is?

Etta: You can't.

D: I realized that trying to get a job didn't work. Trying to fix my head didn't help. Trying to kill myself didn't work nor did anyone understand what my "cries for help" meant.

Etta: What did they say was wrong with you?

D: Schizophrenia.

Etta: Were you seeing shit?

D: No. I wasn't paranoid either. Yet, as a punker, I don't trust the government. I want to revolt against body mod discrimination. But, my therapists didn't understand this because they were wrapped up in understandings of the fucking ghetto. Had I been born a sociopath gang banger, they could have helped me, no problem.

Etta: Punk and Rap cultures are basically opposites.

D: Fucking exactly! Every fucking job I've had in the last 10 years treats me like some kind of example because of my tattoos and gauged ears. When I talk about discrimination, people treat me like I have no right to do so.

Etta: It's okay. Calm down.

Me: You want a cigarillo? I've got one in my car.

D: No, it's okay. I can collect myself quickly.

Etta: Another "symptom" of schizophrenia?

D: Yeah. Apparently bouncing from one mood to the next seamlessly is weird. Yet, I listen to erratic Metal all the time. What therapists don't understand is that music conveys emotions. Bands I like tempo-shift constantly. One moment it's screaming distorted chaos, the next moment it's an ethereal passage of calm, the next...back to chaos.

Etta: So your emotions are less fluid?

D: Somewhat...it's more like I have erratic emotions ALSO. I have moments of fluid emotionality and moments of erratic...all in a time when most people only know of fluidity.

Me: Dartanius, the harbinger of emotional evolution!

D: Fuck...I talk about this shit to anyone in Michigan and they look at me like I've completely lost my fucking mind. Yet, here I am talking to 2 strangers in Ohio that fucking understand. Dammit.

Etta: Don't let it get you down, Dartanius.

Me: Yeah. That shit's in the past. We're not the only Americans that would get you. You just ran into a bunch of stupid assholes in Michigan.

Etta: I have a friend that you should meet. You're straight, right?

D: I've been seeing Cara...

Me: ...Cara never dates anyone for more than a few weeks.

Etta: This is true. We're not trying to mess with your head or whatever, but she's damaged goods. It's not my place to say what's truly up with her, but she's incapable of a serious relationship. Who knows, tho?? If/when things go sour with Cara, call me and I'll have you meet Tamara.

Me: Tamara?

Etta: Yes, Tamara. It may not make sense to you but you hardly know her.

Me: Right on.

Etta: Where are you staying, Dartanius?

D: Well...I was...

Me: ...if you want to crash at my place, that'd be fine. Your car is there anyway...and you probably shouldn't be driving.

Etta: No. That Quambo really fucks with coordination. The only reason Isac can handle it is cuz his DNA is half marijuana. Did I tell you that I fucking fell down the stairs when I was leaving the haunted house?

D: No.

Etta: Don't laugh. My favorite jacket got caught on the railing and go a big hole tore in it.

D: Sorry. I meant no offense. Sucks about your jacket.

At that point, the other guys joined us outside. Everyone decided to go our respective ways. Danny with Etta to their place. Gravy back to his pad. Mel looked like he was going to drink himself numb for the night. So, we gathered what needed to be taken and left.

Dartanius wasn't all-too talkative for the rest of the night. I shot Cara a text asking her what she thought of him...was he trustworthy enough to allow a crash on my futon. She replied yes. 5 minutes later, he gets a text. "Cara just called it off with me." Hate to say I told you so. "Oh well." Here's to positivity.

We stayed up for a while playing guitar together and smoking weed. Eventually, I went to my room, dosed some indica, and fell into sleephood.

Chapter 4

I wake up disoriented. I don't know this ceiling. I don't know this room. Then I notice Isac's guitar propped up against the wall and I remember who I am, where I am, etc. My phone lets me know it's 10:50am. It's quiet.

I walk out of the weed room and see no one else in the apartment, yet I see that Isac's bedroom door is shut. So, I go take a piss. Find some mouthwash, use it...wash my hands and face. My hair is fucked but I've a hat in my car.

The world is an existential hellhole and I am the unluckiest joke of them all. I find ibuprofen in his medicine cabinet and dose 3.

Feeling a bit more human, I step back out into the hall. On the walls are pictures of who I assume is his family and friends. 2 arty photos. The living room just seems bright. The blinds are closed but it's obviously going to be a sunny day. On the kitchen table is a note:

Dartanius,

Hey dude. I'm off to work. Figured I'd let you sleep. I'll be home around 7pm. You can hang out if you want. It's up to you. I don't keep much food here, but there are bagels and shit to make a PB&J, if you are hungry. Later

Isac

p.s. Lock the door if you leave.

Well, that's kind of him. I look in the fridge and he's right...almost nothing to eat. I grab a beer and drink it while I nose around his cupboards. Just regular shit like bowls, cups, and whatnot. I grab another beer but second guess it. No sense in falling down that hole yet again. I fill a glass with water and drink half, leaving the glass on the counter.

I go back to his weed room and grab my bag out of my coat. If I smoke here, I'll laze-out all day. I'm feeling anxiety already, so I decide to just roll a couple joints and be on my way. It takes me a few seconds to locate his papers...and of course they're all king size. Isac has friends and is a caregiver. He's no reason to have whites.

So, I cut a couple papers short and roll a duo of fatties. Put on my jacket. Pocket the weed. Find my shoes, put them on. On the back of Isac's note I write:

Isac,

Thanks for letting me crash. I'm going on a drive. When I'm back in town, I'll hit you up. I drank a beer but ate no food. I buy you a 6 when I see you again.

Peace

Dartanius

I feel for my keys but can't find them. A mental image of them on the table in the weed room flashes and I retrieve them. As I'm heading out, I stop at Isac's bedroom door. I grab the handle but second guess it. I make sure I have everything and leave, locking the door behind me.

Outside, the air is brisk. The sun alerts me. It's cool, but not Michigan in November cold. I get in my car and drive away. Tho, I don't really know where I am.

I have well over a ½ tank of gas so that doesn't worry me...which is good. I resist the urge to spark a joint since I don't know where the expressway is. I tell myself that once I'm headed south on 75, I'll toke. Besides, the longer I let my head wake up, the spacier the high will be.

It's 11:45am before I start to see signs for 75. I follow them. Eventually, I can see the onramp but there's a shopping center close by. Big box stores. As much as I hate people, I need a crowd right now to remind me what kind of earthling I was born as.

I find the home superstores to be the most enlightening. Sure, it's always the same shit...pharmacy, garden, electronics, toys, hardware, groceries, magazines, shoes, clothes, and housewares...but...I dunno...maybe it's the colors and all the activity. Reminds me of how little I actually have to put into being a human being...regardless of how much of a failure and outcast I am.

Before I leave the home store, I stop in the corporate coffee outpost at the front. I waste like $3 on a small coffee. It's overpriced but I dig the idea of luxury sometimes. I leave. Next to the home store is an electronics store...one that sells cds. I walk around the store before I meander to the cd department. Tvs, car audio, appliances, computers, video games, dvds, a few musical instruments. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The cd department is small. I remember when there were dozens of racks...aisle upon aisle of cds. Now they're about ⅓ the size of a dvd section. Oh well. No sense in getting pissed at that shit for the billionth time.

I sip my coffee as I look thru the Popular section. Used to be there was sections for Rock, Rap, Pop, Country...now it's all lumped into one heap. Oh well. As limited as the selection is, I find a couple cds I don't have but would like to own. I wasn't too into Metalcore when it broke, but there are a few bands that are honestly talented...not just trend-jumping yuppies. I weigh the options and choose to get only one. I've got almost 4 grand to my name but there's no point in spending like a rapper.

Money disappears quick. It's only been a few weeks and I've gone thru well over a grand. Gas. Lodging. Food. Cover at bars. Cheap beer to keep up appearances. My plan was to just go looking for a subculture I could exist within. Some say it takes money to make money. I say it takes money to find yourself. But, I guess that's the dream, right? To be lost in a country full of assholes and bitchy cunts.

Tho, I digress...

I take my selection to the registers and choose the best-looking clerk. Call me a perv...but I'd rather talk to a hot chick than some geeky dude, if I have the option. Not that I'm in any shape to attract a female human being. You can't super-saturate yourself with weed for...what..5-7 hours and expect to wake up the next day looking refreshed.

Surprisingly, the clerk, Samantha, is kinda flirty. I posit that it's either because I'm essentially a tourist or because I got a quarter in the car. If I wasn't just passing thru, I might have pursued the option, but she wasn't my type anyway. When she was scanning the cd she asked me:

S: Is this some of that screamy metal stuff?

Me: Yeah. It just came out. It had totally slipped my mind.

S: You look like someone that's into that stuff.

Me: Are you?

S: Not really. I'm more into Country and a little bit of Rap.

Me: Ever heard of Hillbilly Jackalope Jenkins?

S: No.

Me: He's an underground Country artist. Worth checking out.

S: I only really listen to the stuff on the radio.

Me: Yeah, you look like the type.

Of course, that kinda insulted her eventho I meant no offense. Tho, sometimes I can come off as rude. Oh well. She finished ringing me up and I walked away. Before I walked out the door, I looked back to check her out. She was reaching up to turn off her light and I got a nice glimpse of her ass. Absolutely fine specimen of a woman. Maybe in some alternate universe we could have dated.

I looked around and no one noticed me checking her out. At times, I feel bad for objectifying, but it's not like I'm some rapper that writes song after song about asses. Who's to say Samantha didn't look at my ass when I walked away? Admiration is not an act of perversion.

When I got back into my car, I opened the cd and popped it in. It started to play so I turned it off. Don't want to get caught high as hell, driving 70mph...only to find I bought a defective cd. Open my console and grab the 2 joints. Weigh my options and go for the slightly smaller one. Probably smoke all of it, trash the roach out the winder (sic), and save the other one for later. In a few hours...probably around 4 or 5pm. I'll smoke half, then half again at 7 or so. That is, as long as it's as decent as Isac says.

Put the other joint back in the console and grab my eyedrops. Dose beforehand. Start car. Light joint. It starts without a hassle. My mind turns to the beer I drank for breakfast...will it affect me? I rationalize no. Either way, my car has cruise control, so driving on the freeway is only a steering issue, for the most-part.

Roll down the windows a few inches. Drive off. Turn on the radio...find Jazz station. The trick is to listen to something else until you're done smoking. Wait until the music really starts to fuck with you and then turn on the cd.

Not that I'm a role model. I've fucked up my entire life. Maybe my weed interest helped cause all the chaos in my life. I dunno. I can barely get adults to like me, let alone influence a kid to do something as stupid as driving stoned.

I pull onto the onramp. Floor it. Toke. Ash out the window. Merge onto the freeway. Exhale. Turn up the radio. Toke. Exhale. Signal and move into the middle lane. Set cruise control at 68mph. Put on sunglasses. The expressway isn't busy...not that it should be. It's roughly 1pm on a Tuesday. I'm too far north of Cincinnati to be near any kind of traffic and if I keep driving the speed limit, I'll pass thru the city long before rush hour starts. Toke. Exhale. Manipulate roach. Smoke as much as I can before I burn my fingers discolored. Toss it out the window. Roll up windows. Allow the current Jazz tune to end. Turn on cd. Blast radio.

Chapter 5

These are the best moments in my life. I've experienced many joys, but what I love the most is being enveloped in loud music while driving on the expressway. The night is better than the day, tho with the day, it seems like reality greets me more. There is more to see. The Earth urges me alert.

The only times I've ever fucked up driving high were when I was tired or when I was with someone. Smoking with someone else always leaves me confused. Smoking alone focuses me. The irrationality of life slips away and all that's left is concentration. And with listening to music...it's like guided meditation, I guess. Never figured out meditation but from what I hear, it may be an analogue. Music meanders my mind into so many realms of thought and emotion. Profundity takes hold. Subtlety wrenches. I've always preferred listening to music I don't know. I'll trust a band to take me somewhere their genius can only go. As I drive aimlessly, everything is new except for the car I'm driving. Roads, scenery, music. It's an attack on the senses. Even with the windows up, the air smells different, cleaner. I'm moving at 68mph yet I'm sitting still. The Earth races thru my latent thoughts and the music drowns out the sound of the road.

Some cars speed passed. Some take exits. Others merge. Every now and again, I have to slow down or go around someone, but for the most-part, it's all cruise controlled serenity. The music swells. New thoughts emerge and are replaced by newer ones. Even if I consider my past, there is too much new stimuli to get caught in a looping reverie.

When I tested the cd, the run time flashed on the display. This is important. It tells me how long the newness will lasts. 53:09 is a fantastic buzz. As much as I like Punk, the run times are often <30 minutes. It seems that something truly amazing happens to a mind thanks to weed after about 45 minutes. I can't explain it...but after an hour, it's not the same...before 30 or 40 minutes, it's too confusing to be memorable. There's a point, tho, when clarity and creativity implode simultaneously. Reality shuts off and all that's left is music so loud that your brain can't allow you to sense anything else. All there is is hearing. The brain fights itself for the emotional aspect of music is undeniable. This is when the echo of reverb from a pick grazing a high E string can mean more than the angriest scream. It's when intensity becomes the entirety of human capability.

Then the cd ends. I hear it scan back to track 1 and I quickly shut off the radio. I allow myself to reflect. I allow the sound of the road to remind me that I'm just a person. I'm doing something that could be construed as potentially dangerous. Something illegal that I can't prove I'm capable of doing.

I look around. I watch the signs for a few miles. I'm close to Cincinnati. I'll just keep on driving. Stop in Kentucky to piss or whatever. I reach into the back seat...grab my cd book. Cautiously flip thru the pages. I know every cd. I can look at each one and know what may come from listening. The ideas. The emotions. Choose more Metal. Pull cd out. Eject cd, put in open spot in book. Insert new cd. Start listening at a lower volume. Give the music time to envelop me and replace the monotony of the road. Up the volume incrementally. Within 5 minutes, I'm lost in sound again. Isac was right, this is good weed. With some weed, the buzz dies out drastically once the first cd is done...but this shit is still kicking hard. I feel a bit clearer but that's because the grand confusion of the first high of the day is over. Plus, smoking a new strain has its own unique confusion to it.

I drive on. Thru Cincinnati and on into Kentucky.

The cd ends and I'm my gas gauge is below ⅛, so I pull off at the next exit. It's a town-town...by that I mean one of those places named after someone or a family name. Jamestown, Peterstown, or whatever. The clerk at the gas station has a slight southern drawl, but it's not like I'm in the cousin-fucking mountains yet. As I pump a 20 into my car, I look around. There are stores, but it's obvious this isn't a huge shopping district. Tho, the clerk didn't seem weirded out by my ears or hand tattoos but he did kinda look at me like: "We don't see lots of your kind round here." Which isn't prejudice...but it's not all that comforting.

The nozzle clicks to end the 20 in and I replace it onto the pump. I can see a corporate coffee place which would greatly facilitate me writing high as hell in...but I'm hungry. Learned long ago not to get high to eat. Just a waste of weed if you ask me. Not like I've got the cancer or anything like that. So I drive to some diner down the road.

I check my eyes and they're as white as can be. As I'm walking thru the parking lot, I assess that I'm reasonably high, but far from stoned. The kind of high that only a family member would notice, not a hick stranger.

The diner is cozy. The hostess seats me in a booth. It's all of 2pm...so it's that lull between lunch and dinner, so I'm pretty much the only patron. I get a decent booth. My waitress, a White lady in her 50s, walks over with a menu.

Waitress: Hello. How you doing today?

Me: Fine. And you?

Waitress: Never better...never better. My name is Melissa. I am your waitress but if you need anything and I'm not around, that lady right over there is Peaches and she'll help you too. What can I get you to drink?

Me: Water.

Melissa: You want lemon with that?

Me: No thank you.

Melissa: I'll be right back with that water.

I grab my notebook and pull the pen from my pocket. Per usual, I write down the date and start looking around the room like an aspie...for inspiration and whatever. I learned not to start writing until I place my order and have my beverage. That is unless I've got an idea burning my creativity to ashes.

Melissa returns. Asks if I'm ready to order. It didn't even dawn on me to look at the menu. I tell her I need a few minutes and she wanders off. The menu is just basic stuff: sandwiches, salads, soups, burgers, fries, a few dinners...like steak or pot roast. That type of shit. I've eaten at so many diners that the food never sounds good. It's hit or miss, always. One place has good fries but shit ranch. Another place has a decent burger while the next can't grill to save their lives. I decide on the turkey club with fries because it's hard to fuck up and I'm not looking for a heavy meal.

I set the menu down and organize the sugars and sweeteners. I straighten out the salt, pepper, ketchup, and napkin dispenser. Some say I've OCD. I think I'm just mystified by order. Melissa comes back.

Melissa: Was the table not to your liking, sir?

Me: Oh, it was fine. I just like to organize things when I'm mildly bored.

Melissa: You know...my nephew does that too. My sister is always talking about how clean his room is. My niece, on the other hand, is a total slob.

Me: I believe it. Often, siblings can be polar opposites.

Melissa: What what will you be having?

Me: I will have the turkey club with fries. No lettuce or tomato. Ranch on the side.

Melissa: Anything else?

Me: Not that I can think of...actually, can you bring a bottle of mustard too?

Melissa: Sure thing, hon. I'll have that to you as soon as it's done.

Me: Excellent.

I got back to staring off into space. Nothing amazing comes to mind. This happens often enough. When I was in my post-teens, I could whip up a story any night of the week...now, inspiration comes and goes. Even good ideas aren't worth expounding upon.

So I end up mindlessly journaling. Typical stuff: life is a joke, I suck, I'm pathetic, no one gets my sense of humor, existentialism, nihilism, poverty, depression...stare off into space...death, I'm a failure...stare off into space...

I don't know how many minutes pass, but Melissa shows up.

Melissa: Here we go. One turkey club, no veggies, fries, a side of ranch, and a bottle of mustard. Would you like more water?

Me: Sure.

Melissa: Okay, I'll be right back.

[moments later]

Melissa: Here you go. Anything else I can get you?

Me: No thanks.

Melissa: Enjoy, sugar.

I eat. I write a bit, but it's just crazy journaling. I find that if I can get all the self-loathing off my chest, I'll clear the way for actual creative writing. Also, I'm sure that sometimes I force myself to write, which is like exercise...so all there is is the pain of gain, I suppose. More time passes.

Melissa: You still doing okay?

Me: Yeah.

Melissa: How's the food?

Me: Delectible.

Melissa: That's good. Are you writing a book?

Me: Somewhat. It's more of a travel journal that I might publish one day.

Melissa: You ain't from around here, are ya?

Me: No. I'm from Michigan.

Melissa: Such a pretty state. My brother moved to Temperance about 15 years ago. You ever been out there.

Me: Yeah. A few times. Not much out there except for farms. It's nice to drive thru the country sometimes.

Melissa: You from the city?

Me: Kinda. I grew up near Detroit.

Melissa: Tell me...is Detroit as bad as the news says?

Me: Um...yes and no. Probably more no than yes, but there is a bunch of truth to the yes.

Melissa: Oh, okay. Well you enjoy your food. Not my job to keep you from eating.

We both laugh as she walks away. I ate kinda quickly. I just didn't have much to write about. Self-loathing always ends up in the trash...I mean: No one but a psychologist is going to find that kind of stuff useful or interesting. Readers want plot and direction. It's not that compassion is obsolete, it's that paragraph after paragraph of "I hate my life" is pathetic and boring.

My bill was like $7. I left $11 and some change on the table. Only ate half of the sandwich. Diners tend to give you an obese amount of food. Sure, you can take leftovers home, but I really don't like to have accessible food in my car with me when I'm on a weed adventure. Temptation will make you a fat idiot.

Chapter 6

So I'm sitting in my car leafing thru my cd book. I've decided not to go stoned-writing. If lunch has taught me anything, it's that there's nothing going on in my head for now. I'm in that place weed leaves you when you've come down exactly enough to be able to get super high again. That place where happiness means nothing because elation is 10 minutes away. I think about my money. Fuck it. I'll spend all day driving stoned. Maybe night will find me somewhere interesting.

None of my cds seem ideal. Old buzzes. Old thoughts. Then I get to the pages of CD-Rs full of my music. Demos. Old projects. There's something about getting high to my own music that rocks me to the core (no pun intended). I hear lots of musicians talk about how they don't listen to their own recordings. To each their own, but I'm not like that. I guess it tells my story. It kinda proves I existed in some form in the past. Proves myself that I'm not just some deadbeat, regardless of how little success I've had. Yeah, it's not like 33 is too old for success, but I would have liked to achieve something in my 20s.

I look at my cds and realize this day will be one of reflection. My songs are but time capsules. Messages to myself from a past me. I always wrote in lyrical abstraction...for life is always augmenting. Taking on new forms. Meanings change and/or deepen. Even if the enlightenment I find is only mine and never understood by others...diminished by others...I can have a day of clouded judgement and intensified focus, even if it seems narcissistic to everyone else.

I look around. No one about. No cars parked next to me. I pull out my bag and papers. Break up some buds and roll 2 more joints. It's 2:50pm. I'm fed. Clear headed. My depression is lurking but knows that the medicinal side of marijuana will soon squash it. I'll need water, tho. Any pothead will tell you: "Water is essential." I mean: I think I have a couple bottles mostly-empty on the floor in the back but I'll need at least a liter for this journey. So I head back to the gas station. I buy a liter of water and a road map of Kentucky.

Back in my car, I drive off away from the town. Away from the people and the expressway. I don't even plan on using the map until sundown. I find a Bluegrass station on the radio and turn it up. Not expressway loud, tho. A nice drive thru the country loud. Soon enough, the stores are behind me. No long after that, the warehouses and office buildings are long gone. The joint stops smoking with about 2/5ths to go, so I plop it in the cupholder and light another one. I'm not running from anything. I'm destroying a part of myself.

I turn south. This joint burns down to about ⅓ and I plop it in the cupholder with the other one...put a business card in the cupholder to cover the roaches, just in case. My apprehension and anxiety are gone. I eject the 2nd Metal cd and slide in an album of some acoustic songs I wrote years ago. I felt nothing but peace and pride in my little car.

Hours pass and night sets in. I'm another joint deeper into my mind. I know exactly where I am on the map. I'm okay on gas. Then, my cd player starts skipping. It's been said that the brain works on electrical impulses...my thoughts so saturated as they seethe thru my brain that I'm affecting the radio, yet again. I calm myself a bit and it stops skipping.

More time passes and it's night now. I've put more gas in my truck and took a few tokes off a bowl. I know the bingeing can't continue. I've done that...I've extended a day like today for weeks. I've been so far from reality that it took me days to get back to a normal-enough mindset.

Not that the status-quo has ever agreed on anything intellectually intriguing.

My body is cramped. I need fresh air. I need to stretch my legs. This is why I love home superstores. I get to walk around. My brain tingling from the pot. Ignored by the commonfolk. I also need to decide where I'll sleep. Do I arrange my blankets in the back seat? It's not super comfortable...I can't really stretch out...but if I park at a 24 hour home store, I can catch a few Zs. Security will just think I'm in an employees vehicle. My windows are tinted. I've a curtain, of sorts, that I hang just behind the front seats. No one will see me.

I could opt for a motel. Hotel if I'm really feeling reckless. It dawns on me that I'm all twisted about, mentally. I need human contact. No one's texted me...but it's not like I expected them to. It's 10:30pm. Haven't even been up 12 hours. I come upon an onramp to an expressway. I hop on. Within a few minutes, I find an exit with fast food and a motel. As I drive by the motel, the sign reads: $49/night.

Bingo.

It looks like a decent-enough place. Not some crack dumpster where fuckers take whores and whatnot. Just some place that's 20 years in the past. I hit up a drive-thru for a meal. Head back to the motel. The receptionist's name is Mark.

Mark: Hello, sir. In need of a room?

Me: Yeah. It's been a long day.

Mark: Fine weather, tho.

Me: Oh...yeah, sure was.

Mark: Is it just you or will someone be joining you?

Me: Nah. Just me.

Mark: Alright. We have our single-king standard for the special of $49 a night and we have a jacuzzi room available for $89.

Me: No jacuzzi is necessary.

Mark: And how many nights are you wanting to stay?

Me: Two.

Mark: No problem. Will this be cash or credit?

Me: Cash.

Mark: Okay...I'll just need your ID.

He processes the data...I stand in silence.

Mark: Alright, Mr. Cooper. Any wake up calls needed.

Me: No. I won't need any maid-services, either. I keep strange hours and will probably be sleeping when they do their rounds.

Mark: No problem sir. I will inform the staff. Just remember to put the Do Not Disturb sign on your door.

Me: Will do.

Mark hands me a key card and gives me the total...something like $113 after tax and whatever extra fees the motel charges. He tells me the WiFi password is on the receipt and that if I have any trouble, call the office...he'll be there all night. "Thanks, Mark."

Room 137. Key card worked appropriately. King size bed. 27" big plastic box of a tv. Desk with a chair. Sink outside the bathroom. Exactly what I expected...dingy but not grody. From what I could tell, the rooms next to and around 137 were vacant...you know: lights off, curtain half open. Not that I assumed a motel in the sticks would be packed on a Tuesday night, early November.

I closed the curtain and tossed my backpack on the bed. Put my food and drink on the desk. Made sure the water flowed, toilet flushed, and tv worked. My home for the next 36 hours or so.

Basic motel tv channels: couple premium movie, sports, news, cartoons, major networks, Canada, at-home shopping, etc. Bible in the drawer...there was a time when I'd throw them in the trash. Seems easier to just leave em in the drawer, anymore. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

There's something kinda sad and lonely about motel rooms. Not in a bad way, tho. They remind me that humans are singular. As hard as we try to stay on top of things, we're doomed to be old-fashioned in some ways. When I stay in hotels, I always feel similar to when I go to the mall. I feel surrounded by others. Stores go out of their way to appear modern and people get modern-minded. In a motel, it feels more like camping. You have your space and your neighbors have theirs. It's almost as if I can reach thru the wall and greet them. In a hotel, neighbors seem miles away.

I also like motels because the receptionists get to accurately stereotype me as a stoner. They know that my plan is to get high. They don't care. I don't care. Hotels care, tho. When I check into a hotel, it feels like a business meeting. The corporate structuring is quantifiable in the emotional output of the receptionist. Hotels are all about denying the oddity of life. Like how parents tend to act like they don't cuss or fuck or drink when their kids are around. Motels are the families that don't censor themselves from their children. They don't sugar-coat anything.

Turn off the tv and go outside. I grab my laptop from my truck and make sure the doors are locked. I can see the mountains off in the distance. Always good for a mind like mine...to see land where the sky usually is.

Back in the room, I set my laptop on the desk and turn it on. Grab my backpack and sit at the desk. Joint or bowl? Bowl. I'm realizing that I'm fucking exhausted. Eat a few fries. Eat a burger. Few more fries. Swallow some pop and close the bag. Toke up. Check email. Close laptop. Finish bowl. Shower. Brush teeth. Watch cartoons until I fall asleep.

Chapter 7

Wake up 7:30am. Bladder full. Piss. Brush teeth. Lay back down, yet sleep won't come. 8am. Turn on tv. Channel surf. 8:20am. Nothing is on. Turn tv off. Grab laptop. No emails. Fuck around on UsVideology.com for about 40 minutes. A guitar lesson. Couple music videos. Some gear reviews.

Get up and take a shower. There's something about taking a shower in a shower I've never used that excites me. Perhaps it's an extension of my apparent schizophrenia, but showering in a new shower is overwhelmingly fun to me. The water pressure is different. The sound of the room is different . It looks different. This one has one of those convex curtain rods that bend out into the middle of the bathroom...making it feel like the shower is huge. I even like opening the little bars of soap. Reminds me of Halloween candy or stocking stuffers.

I love to shower in the dark. I like waiting around until my eyes adjust to the small amount of light that comes thru the cracks in the door. Think about it: Humans don't really explore a visionless world much. (Save for blind people.) We close our eyes to sleep...which usually leads to the amazing phenomenon of dreaming...and when else? When we don't want to see something...like scary parts of a horror movie or when ugly people make out in front of us...or when we're sick with a headache or flu. The sun goes down and most people go to bed. Like half of the people that do go out at night complain about having poor night vision. We live in this country where darkness is eliminated by fluorescent and halogen lighting. I dunno.

Personally, I find it exhilarating to close off the sense of sight. We don't need to register that kind of data all the time. It's rumored that claustrophobia only affects those with vision. Shit...prejudice and discrimination is largely due to vision. Fact: A blind person is never going to think that tattoos and piercings look unprofessional. It makes me wonder just how detrimental seeing might be for humans.

I mean: One gets a migraine, doses meds and then lays down for a while with closed eyes...leaving the eyes open makes the migraine worse.

Either way...I dig showering in the dark.

I turn off the shower and dry myself. Walk around naked for a few minutes but I'm not a nudist. Never been super comfortable naked. Dated a nudist once. Didn't work out. Made me feel like I needed to change the way I thought about human sexuality and the naked body. Personally, I want to be turned on when I see naked titties and asses. I'm mature enough not to ogle a nudist or get a boner just because I see some skin, but nudism just seems counter-intuitive. Here's to conditioning!

Rifle thru my backpack and pull out some clean clothes. Get dressed. Put the dirty ones in the backpack. Apply deodorant. Check facial hair...it's scruffy but not grody yet, so I leave my trimmer in the backpack. Sit at the desk and roll a joint.

Wake-n-baking is always a choice. Used to be that when I'd go bingeing, I'd always wake-n-bake. It always felt like continuing the day before. Reupping the high and whatnot. Do I really want to face reality? Because I don't have to. I've got enough smoke to pull it off. As long as I treat today as a day of being high and not super-high, I'll even have a gram or more for tomorrow.

My stomach gurgles. I look at my bag of fast food and the cup of pop that is undoubtedly going to be more water than syrup since ice melts at room temperature and I decide to wait on smoking. I empty my backpack of clothes and put my laptop and charger in it. I collect my paraphernalia and put it in the backpack, too. To the outside world I will go. Maybe some coffee. Definitely some pancakes. Zip up the backpack. Put on my shoes and jacket. Slide my key card in my wallet. Grab my keys, cell phone, and backpack. Shut the lights off and leave 137.

Another bright, mild Autumn morning greets me. Jokingly, I look at the sun and cringe like a movie vampire might but no one is around to notice the humor. Oh well. I chuckle at my own stupidity. Get in my car, which is a fucking mess...which is normal. Almost every time I spend all day baking in my car, it looks like a trash can afterward. It's never more than a minute or so of organizing, but still. I'm amazed, tho...I didn't even buy a bunch of crap yesterday.

I toss this and that in a t-shirt bag used as a trash bag. Put that behind the seats. Put the cd book on the dashboard. Toss a couple articles of clothing behind the seat. Grab a handful of cds I failed to put back into the book, put in book. Set book on now cleared passenger seat. Grab the novel from the passenger side floorboard and put it in backpack. Put backpack on floorboard. Rummage thru the back seat until I find my jacket. Use jacket to quickly dust ashes off the dashboard and console. Toss jacket behind the seat. Move business card in the cup holder, blow out the ashes and weed remnants. Replace card. Take deep breath. Look around...all clean. Start car. Roll down windows. Another deep breath. Notice a bit of paper that ashed off a joint on the driver's side floorboard. Toss out window. Put on seatbelt. Drive away.

This city isn't much. Just a half mile or so of typical stuff like gas stations, motels and whatnot. So, I go back to the same fast food joint as last night. Go in with backpack emptied of weed stuff, order the pancake breakfast w/ coffee, and sit down facing the wall. It always amazes me how normal fast food places can feel in the oddest of places. Sure, southern hospitality is different than yankee hospitality, but it's hospitality all the same...within the structure of a corporate model. The food tastes exactly the same. The seating looks slightly different but it's obvious it was decided on by the same people as 3 towns or states over. This franchise isn't as modern as some I've been in but there's something ridiculous, to me, about modernizing fast food restaurants.

Eat a little bit. Pull out laptop. Sign on to wifi...check email, none. Eat more. Sip coffee. Look at receipt...find out the name of this hick town. Search it on the internet. Nothing exciting, unless you find a simple country life exciting. Sure, a simple life is great, but it's not anything for a tourist. Search: 'Music stores near me'. There's a banjo store a few miles away. Research banjo store. They sell acoustic guitars too, but it seems more like a Country store than Metal...probably have a limited clue as to what Metal is so I search: 'Music Super Store near me'. MSS has become a Mecca for musicians. There's a few in every state, basically. They've corporatized the selling of musical equipment...so that's good and bad. Musicians can go there and get sweet deals on gear but it's all commission so the salespeople are fakely-cool and do what they can to keep their commissions high. I always get the sense of music living at MSSs...yet it's more like hotel living than motel living.

I dunno. It's more like: If a pro walked into a MSS, they'd be treated like a diva. If a pro walked into a mom & pop music shop, they'd just be another musician. It's obvious that MSS staff members are told to kiss asses. They oversell the experience of being a musician obtaining new gear.

I take it with a grain of salt, tho. Sure, they pissed me off a few times. Selling used gear to them is a travesty unto music, but for the most-part, it's easier to be a modern guitarist shopping there than going into some mom & pop shop that wants to sell you some overpriced no-name guitar rather than the name brand one you really want.

Search results: MSS stores near. 1 is 30 miles away to the west. Another is 50 miles to the south. No plans so I choose the south location. Search that city...it seems bigger than where I'm at. They've got a small music store, too. Even if it's just pointless window shopping, it's something to do to kill the day.

Finish my meal. Coffee is half gone but unwanted so it's to go in the trash. Pack up laptop. Dispose of trash. Head out. Drive to gas station. Fill up. Buy a pair of cigarillos. Walk around the gas station parking lot. Sit on curb facing mountains. Take a few drags from a cigar. Life gets quiet. I get dizzy. Put out cigar. Walk back to car. Open gas tank door. Set cigar on tank lid. Close door. Drive off. Obtain joint from console. Slide onto top of right ear like a pencil. Leaf thru cd book. Pull out new cd from yesterday. Put in player, turn off power. Stop at light. Notice cop. Wave hello. Green light. Allow cop to lead traffic. Pull onto expressway. Light joint.

After getting turned around a bit, I arrive at my destination around 11:30am. Whereversville, KY...where the normal is regular! Seriously, tho...it's about as typical as Downriver. There's even a mall. I want to soak in Kentucky, so I go to said mall. Pull in. Park. Smoke a bit of the cigar. Walk toward the mall dizzy. Enter the mall, not dizzy but pretty high. Stores, fountain, food court. The people all bustling in standard mall fashion. I laugh to myself. Pop music plays overhead and I allow myself to enjoy it. I think of all those times I wished I was this high but was dry. Shrug off the futility of temporary circumstances.

A security guard gives me a knowing look, but I'm wearing a jacket so I doubt he'll follow me around cuz of the colors in my skin. Maybe he calls his co-rent-a-cops and tells them to keep an eye out for me, but I'm in no position to honestly involve myself with paranoia.

As I meander around the mall, I stop in the freaky store. Some off-kilter Black Metal plays over the speaker. All is Goth-sheik. Blacks mixed with neons, as if being high-contrast was ever a Metal thing. Times change, tho. I guess that sticking out while being an outcast is evolutional...survival. Exploited in the store are cartoon characters that I grew up watching...yet all this shit is geared toward 14 year olds of today that don't even know what they fuck they're liking. What happened was that the freaky kids of my generation had kids, raised them on the shit we grew up with, and now in an act of social rebellion, those freaky people's progeny carry their parents' flags as if being anything like your parents is truly what being an outcast is about.

T-shirts for sale are of the Metal-ish bands that are the most popular but no less than half those bands are douchebag rockstars mixing 80s Hair Metal with Emo stupidity on 6 string guitars tuned to Drop A where only teenagers wind up at their concerts. Those bands that are socially relevant until their fanbase grows out of the 15-22 age range, for it is that 15-22 year olds will always define what's against the status-quo's grain.

The only thing that makes the store seem valid are the late 20s/early 30s staff members. They're the ones playing bands on the p.a. that the store would never sell merch of. They are the cool people selling novelty bullshit to trend-hopping kids. Makes no sense, so I leave without buying anything...tho I can't remember the last time I bought anything from one of their stores. Hmph.

Back out in the mall I walk the around. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. As I look around the stores, it re-dawns on me that 90% of what is sold at a mall is temporary nonsense. Seasonal clothes that get worn for 3 months or so. Novelty items that are funny once. Pointless perfumes, colognes, and makeups that run out quickly enough. Food that is turned to shit in a day or 2. As-seen-on-tv items that seem more functional than they actually are. If it wasn't for the department stores selling home items like towels and toasters...and jewelry stores...everything bought and sold at the mall would most likely be trash in a year.

I slink into the other freaky store...the one that sells weed posters, ashtrays, wallets, black lights, porn birthday cards, and the like...I stare at a few images and laugh at a few of the hats. Yet the whole store is inundated with objectified women and stereotyped social minority propaganda. Fuck...even the weed items make me feel like smoking is a pathetic trend, so I leave without buying anything.

I look for a book store, but malls don't have them anymore because the computer companies have convinced everyone that physical media is wasteful, so buy their tiny computers and download digital copies of everything...and never fucking question them...don't ever assume that electricity can be wasted...and make sure you buy that new phone or tablet that will be obsolete in less than 600 days. Idiots.

I walk by a bathroom and consider pissing. Alright. Go inside and the air is thick. Not full of farticles, but just thick...like it needs ventilation. The music is louder...which is nice for the high, regardless of how shitty Pop music is. Step into a stall because I hate using urinals. I don't like the idea of others being able to watch me pissing. There is nothing I can teach them. There is nothing to learn. Some dudes like to small-talk...makes zero sense.

So I'm pissing and someone walks in. I assume it's a heavy-set guy cuz I hear lardo take a deep emphazemic breath and exclaim "Ahhhh" as he unloads his penis from his pants and begins to urinate. He chomps his mouth around like a cow and I just feel exposed. I finish my pissing and leave without washing my hands. No, my dick isn't dirty. Yes, I usually wash my hands but I dig washing my hands. Hands get dirty. We touch so much stuff all day long. Germs are real. People are gross. But what's grosser is being in a bathroom with that kind of guy because he always wants to let you know that he knows you're both existing in a small room where dudes fart, piss, and shit. He always seems to be taking up more space than he is and he always, always looks like he wants to talk about Jesus Christ.

Back out in the mall, the music is quieter...which is nice for the high...dynamics and the shittiness of Pop music, and all that. I walk around a few stores but nothing seems interesting so I circle back toward where I came in.

I notice a cd store. Go in. Buy another cd. Double live album of a Jazz trio I dig. This ought to be a decent high. Get to my car. Smoke a little bit more of the cigar. It's tasting gross so I'll toss it out later when I gas up and have a trash can to use. Drive over to MSS, which I can see from the parking lot.

I turn off my car and my phone rings. It's Isac.

Me: Hello.

Isac: Hey, Dartanius. What's up?

Me: Shit. Getting ready to go into MSS.

Isac: MSS? Where are you at?

Me: Somewhere in Kentucky.

Isac: Kentucky? You bail on us?

Me: I go where the toilet flushes me.

Isac: You're high, aren't you?

Me: Little bit. More in a goofy mood. Went to the mall here. Fucken hillbillies.

Isac: (laughs) Are you coming back this way?

Me: Kinda gotta. Why?

Isac: I'm at work and our evening guy just quit on us.

Me: Really?

Isac: Yeah. He was an okay dude but kind of a fucker. One of those White dudes that listens to Hip Hop and Rap and acts like he's from the ghetto and all the world is a ghetto.

Me: I know the type.

Isac: I just don't get people like that. I've got like 30 Rap cds and I've never lost sight of my racial identity...not to be racist.

Me: That's not racist.

Isac: I'm kinda ventings. Sorry. I'm stuck working doubles until we get a new guy.

Me: Why call me? You want me to water your plants?

Isac: I don't have plants.

Me: Oh yeah.

Isac: No, we need a pizza guy and you don't have a job. Do you want to work with me? Have you ever made pizzas?

Me: Years ago, I did.

Isac: It's easy...I teach asshole teenagers how to do it all the time. We don't want another asshole teenager, tho.

Me: I guess I'll do it.

Isac: Yeah?

Me: Yeah.

Isac: Cool, I'll tell Jeremiah. He'll want to meet with you, of course. I'm pretty sure he starts people at $10 an hour. Don't quote me on that. You'll be working evenings, so you'll only work with me for a few hours a day.

Me: Full or part-time?

Isac: Eventually full. This shit happens often enough. Fuckers come and go. You'll come in, get shown the ropes. Work a few hours. Next time a few hours more. I'll be overworked for a week or so. Then things will level out. You'll be full-time, I'll go back to my normal hours.

Me: Alright.

Isac: You can crash at my place for the time being, if you want. I've got that extra room.

Me: Okay.

Isac: Okay?

Me: Yeah, okay.

Isac: Cool. When are you going to be back in Ohio.

Me: Tomorrow evening...maybe late afternoon.

Isac: Can you be here tomorrow before 5pm...just to meet Jeremiah?

Me: Sure. No problem.

Isac: Nice. Thanks. This makes my life easier. I have to go back to work. Oscar, the dude that quit, kicked over a whole stack of 2 liters and the back room is a sticky fucking mess. Yeah, it's kinda funny, but I have to clean it up.

Me: So they broke open?

Isac: Some. There's fucken pop everywhere.

Me: Good luck.

Isac: Thanks. Enjoy MSS. Call me when you're in town.

Me: Will do. Later.

Isac: Bye

Chapter 8

I'm dumbfounded.

The idea of life coming together in Michigan for me was pure fantasy. Honestly, I used to ask around and hope...didn't work. By the time I officially lost hope in humanity, that's the moment everyone around me started treating me like I didn't have my head firmly up my asshole. I got so low that I delved into self-harm. No one got it. They just treated me like I was making terrible worse. I came to understand that being an adult was basically sitting around always somewhat (or more) depressed until you die of cancer or heart disease or stroke or whatever.

The idea of lucking-out and finding an okay job and friends that understood me was foolish...absolutely foolish.

Here I am, tho...reasons to quit running and bingeing my brain away. Fucking unreal. Can't handle it so I light a roach. It's got at least 5 hits on it...which should be good enough to take me up for a MSS experience. Usually, I'll drive around...not this time. I just toke up with my windows cracked in a public parking lot. I mean: I can see people walking to their cars...but at this point I wouldn't be surprised if a unicorn shit potato salad into containers and sold it to griffins right in front of me.

A job and friends?!?

Preposterous.

I'm twinged but I feel myself going up. Next thing I know, I want to cry...a lot. That kind of cry that just flows and flows uncontrollably for ten minutes or more. I fight back the tears. I tell myself that it's just a chance at an actual adult life. Something I've not had since my early 20s. What's a decade, really?

Force a laugh. The roach goes out but that's okay because it's fucken tiny. I dose some eye drops and grab my other cigarillo. Step outside...stretch. I no longer feel cold. Toss my jacket on the passenger seat, covering the cd book and my new Jazz discs, and walk around smoking the cigarillo.

Dizzy again. 4 drags and I'm done. Instead of saving it, I just throw it away in a trash can. Walk into MSS.

The girl at the counter says hi. I respond. She kinda laughs at me being stoned and I walk on. The whole right-side wall is guitars. 20ft in the air, 40ft long. Mostly bullshit 6 strings, tho. All those twangy fucken grandpa guitars that buzz. The humbucked Rock machines that cost too much. Cheap fuckers. I just keep walking. They always put the 8 strings at the end. They're so new that old farts think they're trendy nonsense...MSS doesn't want to hear fogeys bitch about ERGs, so they hide them near the back like tattooed employees at home superstores. I reach the 7 string section...there are maybe 9 or so. MSS stocks them, but it's more like they do it cuz they have to, not because they want to.

The 8 strings number even less. There are 5. Most are at the $400 level. 2 are the same exact guitar. 1 is the same model, just in white. 1 is made by some fuckface brand that caters to bands that play Mall Metal. The last one is a $1300 signature model 1000ft in the air.

I grab the white one. Sit down at an amp. Plug it in. It's completely fucked out of tune. I tune the strings relative to the B(7), but whether or not it's an actual B is beyond me. I can't tune by ear...and these fucking Mall Metal kids try 8 strings out and tune down to some dropped E or D shit...oh, the limitations of the ignorant!

The setup on the guitar isn't bad by MSS standards, which means it's horrible but playable. MSS unboxes guitars, tunes them, and hangs them up. When I used to play 6 strings, I'd go there and just try to find a guitar whose strings weren't ½" off the fretboard. Now that I only play 8s, I have to deal with the neglect...both from the staff and the fuckers acting like Deathcore specialists.

Sales guy: Hi, sir. I see you're testing out an 8 string.

They always say "8 string" like it's an 8 wheeled bicycle that you have to pedal with your tongue.

Me: Yeah. I've played one before. Used to have one like this.

Sales guy: Cool. That's a big seller. Lots of people like it.

Me: It's okay. Definitely an entry level piece. Like playing a $200 6 string or $300 7 string.

Sales guy: We do have the [name removed for copyright reasons] signature model up there.

Me: I saw that. Too bad I didn't bring binoculars.

Sales guy: You want me to get it down?

Me: No. Thinkin I'll just play this one...and maybe a black one.

Sales guy: Browsing is cool here at MSS. My name is Tophernikus. Any questions, let me know. Need a pick?

Me: No, I got one. Thanks anyway.

I play the white one for 5 minutes or so. Grab a black one. Surprisingly, it's in tune...the setup is fucked, but it is in tune. Sounds tuned higher than the white one, but whatever. Noodle around. Switch back to the white one. Noodle around. Back to black. Back to white.

Tophernikus: Still doing okay, bro?

Me: Yeah.

Tophernikus: So what's the verdict?

Me: The black one plays better...cuz the setup is better...but I'd rather have a white one.

Tophernikus: White's alright.

Me: Yeah, but black is where it's at.

Tophernikus: Totally.

Me: Do you know if there's one in the back...still in the box?

Tophernikus: I can go check real quick.

Me: Cool. Thanks.

I hang the black one back up. The wall hangers are made for 6 strings. 7 strings kinda fit, but 8s get all marred up where the neck meets the headstock. Oh well...that's one of the reasons I want a new one. I walk back to the amps and start playing thru a 1x12 practice amp. I'll need one if I go thru with this. Tophernikus comes back.

Topher: It looks like we do have one in the back. Would you like me to go grab it?

Me: Yeah. Real quick tho...does this amp come with a footswitch.

Topher: It costs extra. Most people just push the button on the amp.

Me: Yeah, I know how to work a guitar amp.

Topher: Going for the amp too, sir?

Me: Thinkin so. I'll need something to play thru.

Topher: Whatever you need, we probably got it here at MSS. Straps, picks, cords...all the accessories a guitarist could want.

Me: Yeah. I probably won't get out of here without spending at least $600.

Topher: Don't worry, bro. I'll cut you a deal.

Me: Thanks.

Topher: I'll go grab that guitar and put it behind the counter. You test out the amp and browse further if you need to. I'll be around.

The amp is a no-brainer. I already knew the brand I wanted. I knew I wanted a 1x12. I knew I wanted the footswitch. I memorize the model number and go look for accessories. By the time Tophernikus finds me, I've got a strap, picks, a cord, and a t-shirt of the guitar company. He's elated cuz he makes lots of commission off accessories...and is trained to think that every adult customer doesn't know this.

Topher: Awesome, bro. Got your accessories!

Me: Yup.

Topher: Got your guitar. Even checked it out to make sure it's white.

Me: How kind of you.

Topher: You're welcome. Did you decide on an amp?

Me: Yeah. I'll take the AKVNT112.

Topher: Solid amp. And you said you wanted the footswitch.

Me: Yeah. The smaller one.

Topher: Right, right. Gotcha. I'll be back soon...gotta grab the stuff from the back. Feel free to browse.

I wonder...I have this fucken animosity for modern guitarists. I like their music, but their personalities are shit. Is that because they all act like MSS employees...or is the other way around?

I think of the pros...how cool they seem at first. Then years later, after crazy success, they seem like douchebags. Does meeting shitty people make one a shittier person? I mean, like: When you're a no one, you can hate Pop stars...but when you are a huge success, you end up meeting Pop stars...and for the most-part, there is no sense in being a dickhead for no reason. Does being friendly with douchebags make you understand douchebaggery more?

Does MSS embody some sort of musician standard, as far as comportment goes?

Topher: Alright. Got your amp and footswitch. Are you ready to check out, sir?

Me: Think so.

Topher: Follow me.

We walk to the counter. He starts his computer bullshit.

Topher: So, have you shopped here before?

Me: Yeah.

Topher: Phone number for the account.

Me: Well, I'm not really living somewhere right now...in the process of moving, so can we just skip this aspect and just do a regular receipt?

Topher: This is how we regularly do it.

Me: My situation is irregular.

Topher: Without a phone number and mailing address we won't be able to look up the receipt.

Me: Then I'll have to be careful not to lose it, won't I?

Topher: I guess so.

He goes back to punching keys on the keyboard and scanning things. I can tell he's kinda getting pissy. I am being kinda rude, but it's really, really hard for someone like me to be kind to a fuckface.

Topher: Anything else?

Me: Yeah. 2 packs of those 9-65s.

Topher: If you buy 12, you get 1 free.

Me: You're really making it hard to believe that you even give a shit that I'm a human and not just money connected to an animal.

Topher: They make us say this stuff.

Me: No one makes me do stupid shit.

Topher: I can get the manager if you'd like.

Me: I doubt it would do any good. And no, I don't want a case...or any kind of guitar insurance.

Topher: Alright. How would you like to pay?

Me: Cash.

Fuck.

Me: You know what...my money is in my car. I gotta go get it. In fact, I'll pull my car up to the door so I can load this stuff easier.

Topher: Oh...kay.

Me: How much is the total?

He told me some $600+ number. I asked about a deal...he took care of tax and threw in the strap for free...so it was a bit cheaper. I went out to my car, grabbed some money from my stash, and drove up to the door. Back inside:

Topher: Ah. You're back.

Me: Thought I might bail?

Topher: A little bit...like a maybe-it's-possible.

Me: That happen a lot?

Topher: Yeah.

Me: I do look like a fucker.

By now, Tophernikus just wants me out of his life. Thing is: Most of my MSS shopping sessions go this way. The more I spend, the more they hate me by the time I leave. I don't even like to go to the one in Michigan by my hometown. The other ones are okay, but that one...not worth it.

Tophernikus helps me take my shit to the the door. The greeter lady checks my receipt and I take my bag of accessories and the amp to the car. Return for the guitar. When I get it to the car, I take it out of the box. I want to be able to look at it all the way back to the motel. As I unwrap it, I notice a small bag with 2 allen wrenches in it. Good. The last thing I want to do is go back into MSS and talk to Tophernikus about obtaining the appropriate allen wrenches. I jam the box into the trunk and put the unwrapped guitar on the passenger side, strings up. Circle the vehicle and drive away.

As I'm driving, I finger the strings with my right hand. Pluck them. Horrendously out of tune. Oh well. Before I enter the freeway, I stop at a convenience store. Go inside for some water. Come back, roll a fat joint. Look at the map and figure out how to get back to the motel. Open my Jazz cds. Make sure they play. Turn off radio. Pack a bowl. Merge onto onramp, then freeway. Toke up and think about how good life is.

What if Michiganders are wrong...what if happiness isn't temporary?

Chapter 9

[3:30pm, Thursday]

Clerk: Hello. Welcome to Schmucko's Pizza. Did you already place an order?

Me: Um...no. I'm Isac's friend. I've an appointment to meet Jeremiah about being the new pizza guy.

Clerk: Oh, so you're Oscar's replacement. Hold on.

About 30 seconds pass.

Isac: Hey...he arrives!

Me: Yo.

Isac: Come on back.

He walks me thru the kitchen area. Pizza station. Pizza oven. Sinks. Walk-in cooler/freezer. Various tables. Stock room. Basic pizzerianess. "Do you want a pop?" No. We round a corner and he knocks on a door. It opens and an early 50s dude opens the door.

Jeremiah: Isac...who is this?

Isac: This is the guy I was talking about...Dartanius.

Jeremiah: Nice to meet you.

Me: Likewise.

Jeremiah: Come on in and have a seat. Isac, can you go and bring the girls some 18" boxes?

Isac: Sure thing.

He leaves.

Jeremiah: So, Dartanius. That's an interesting name.

Me: It's not my given name. My name is actually Victor Cooper. Here's my resume.

Jeremiah: Ah, excellent. Why'd you change your name?

Me: Long story short, after years of bad luck in Michigan, I sold everything I owned and went road-tripping. Decided to call myself something besides Vic.

Jeremiah: Dartanius sounds Ancient Greek to me.

Me: Honestly, I just made it up. I'm not super-into Mythology or anything like that. I do like Philosophy but not really the Ancient Greece stuff.

Jeremiah: Cool. I see you've had a bunch of jobs.

Me: Yeah...I never found my place. Had a lot of part-time jobs that were hard to take seriously. Had a few full-time jobs I didn't take seriously enough.

Jeremiah: How so?

Me: The part-time jobs paid little and treated me like a temporary employee. Nothing I said really mattered. The full-time jobs were "career-worthy" but weren't for me. I just couldn't see myself working 30 years in the same overly-testosteroned warehouse.

Jeremiah: Makes sense. I worked in a factory once. Good money but I didn't feel alive...almost like time stopped.

Me: Like a pocket universe.

Jeremiah: Kinda. I try to keep it convivial here. We all get along, laugh, joke. It's not 'overly-testosteroned'.

Me: I wondered about how you stratify the workforce...you told Isac to give the boxes to 'the girls'.

Jeremiah: Most of the people in the back are guys and most of the people up front are girls...women. I never sought after any kind of gender specificity, but most people that apply to answer phones and do the register are female...most male applicants want to work in the back. Nancy, the 2nd shift kitchen manager, has been with the company for 13 years.

Me: I see.

Jeremiah: The only guy working up front now is Keith, who is gay, so he's not stereotypically "bro". You don't have issues with homosexuality, do you?

Me: Oh, no. I get what you're saying. I've just worked for too many men that believe men do one kind of work and women do another.

Jeremiah: I see you worked at a couple of diners.

Me: Exactly...men cooked, women waited tables.

Jeremiah: I'm not like that...all hung up on traditional ideals. I feel like I'm too in-tune with what society actually is, not what I might think it ought to be. So you went to community college?

Me: A few semesters. It was too easy. Even when I took harder classes, the pace was excruciatingly slow.

Jeremiah: I know what you mean. I'm no genius, but I averaged a A-. I got my associates at the local community college. I transferred to a university afterward. It was much better. I didn't do quite as well, but it felt more like college than auxiliary high school.

Me: When I went back, I was in my late 20s...so it was hard to make connections. I felt like a 15 year old playing on a baby slide.

J: You didn't graduate?

Me: No. Money became an issue.

J: That sucks. You plan on going back ever?

Me: Perhaps. Not the same school, tho.

J: What are your goals? 5 year plan?

Me: Ideally, I'd like to be in a successful band. I realize that I may never "make it" but I just want to play music with people. I could never find the right people in Michigan. My life was so unstable...financially...that having others rely on me was probably a bad idea.

J: Oh yeah?

Me: Take Isac for instance...he's chasing the Punk Rock dream, but he's got a solid job and a nice apartment. He's got loads of friends. I never had that. I was often supported by relatives. My friends moved onto careers, spouses, and parenthood.

J: Yeah, you seem like an artist-type.

Me: People need a deeper meaning to their life. Most find it by 25. I still haven't. I've got a lot of flak from people...especially employers...for not being...I can't think of the word.

J: I get what you're saying. I don't need you to be at one with your deepest self. I need you to show up on time, do your job, get along with people...and that's about it.

Me: I can do that.

J: So you've made pizzas before?

Me: As a teen...for a year or so.

J: We'll get you riding that bike again. Are you willing to take deliveries now and again?

Me: Yeah. I don't really know the area, tho.

J: Don't worry about it.

Me: I'm open to helping however I can. Right now, I have nothing going on so I can work whenever. I'll learn phones and register.

J: Ambition is a good thing but don't pave your way with it.

Me: And you've no issues with body mods?

J: Do any of your tattoos have obscene language on them?

Me: No.

J: Any tats with ridiculously grotesque or sexual images?

Me: No.

J: Then I've no problem. I just don't want a customer's kid asking their parents why 'that man has a tattoo of a zombie stabbing a nun to death' or what 'fuck the shittiness of life from the queef of a slut' means.

Me: Right.

J: For the most-part, you'll be in back, so highly-neurotic and overly-sensitive people aren't going to get to inspect your tattoos...so feel free to get whatever ink you want.

Me: I think there is a difference between art and complete fuckery. What about piercings?

J: Keep it tasteful. It's not about vying for attention here. Have as many piercings as you want, but keep it plain looking. Silver or black jewelry. I'm not going to send you home for having fluorescent green plugs, but I'd rather you wear black or white...silver tunnels are okay too.

Me: Alright.

J: Think of it this way: I don't want you to dress like you're getting ready to be someone that stands out at a tattoo convention or Punk festival. If a customer sees you and assumes you do exactly that in your free time, good. I don't care. You don't have to take anything out. I understand that leaving jewelry out for extended periods of time isn't exactly healthy. I only ask that you avoid being conspicuous.

Me: I get it...it's a pizza place, not a tattoo parlor.

J: Any questions for me?

Me: If you could be any animal, what would it be and what superpower would said animal have?

J: A rabbit that can teleport.

Me: Pay...how much, how frequently?

J: $10 an hour to start. Weekly on Fridays.

Me: Attire?

J: Black pants. Non-slip black shoes. We'll give you shirts. What size are you?

Me: Large.

J: I'll get you a couple before you leave. Anything else?

Me: When do I start?

J: Tomorrow? You can come in with Isac and work with him.

Me: Okay.

J: So you're certain you want to be a full-time pizza maker?

Me: I can't think of anything more ideal.

J: Okay. I've got some paperwork for you that I need to locate. You can go talk to Isac for a few minutes if you want. I'll get you a couple large shirts and then have you come back here to fill out the paperwork, okay?

Me; Okay.

I leave the office and find Isac at the pizza table making a few pies.

Me: Hey, dude.

Isac: How'd it go?

Me: Good. Jeremiah seems like a cool-enough guy.

Isac: Yeah...he's one of the good ones.

Me: I'm supposed to work with you tomorrow.

Isac: I see...I work at 7am, but you don't need to be here til 9am...unless you want to come in and just chill.

Me: Doesn't really matter. I can come in at 7.

Isac: Here's to ambition. So what's new? How was Kentucky?

Me: It was fine. Mostly just driving around aimlessly. I bought an 8 string and a practice amp.

Isac: Oh yeah?

Me: Yeah. Playing your 7 string got me in the playing mode and since I have a job, I can justify owning a guitar. I've got it restrung and a bit squared away as far as the setup goes...it's a process.

Isac: Tell me about it...it took me weeks to get that 7 string setup nicely...I can't imagine what it's like to setup an 8.

Me: When I got my first one, it was a hassle...but anymore it's just as bad as a 6.

Isac: I hear the 9s have 2 truss rods.

Me: I know. I can't wait to get one.

Isac: More power to ya. I just don't identify with the extended range players.

Me: I'll change your mind...ha.

Isac: Yeah...ha. It's weird, tho...how 8s and 9s are looked down upon yet I've never heard anyone talk about a 6 string bass like it's stupid.

Me: True. There's something arrogant and preposterous about the 10 and 11 string basses, but the audacity implores me.

Isac: What kind of amp did you get?

Me: Just a basic 1x12 w/ footswitch. A few effects.

Isac: Cool. We'll definitely have to jam. You have some serious chops.

Me: I'm modest. You have no reason to feel bad...

Isac: ...I'm a rhythm guitarist in a Punk band. I do some leads but I'm more about slinging the guitar low and rocking out.

Me: Cool. Do you want any money from me?

Isac: This is how I'm thinking: You can crash at my place as long as you need to. I'm not looking for a roommate, but I'm not opposed to one. We can chill for a few days. If it feels good, then you can "move in". We can work out rent at that point. It wouldn't be much.

Me: Do you think Jeremiah will need an address for paperwork and whatnot?

Isac: You can just use mine.

Me: Okay.

Isac: I'll give you my key before you leave. I have an extra at home...that is if you plan on going there after here.

Me: I can do that.

Isac: Did you try any of that weed?

Me: Yeah. It's almost gone.

Isac: Stoner. You like it?

Me: Yeah. the last 2 days were really...vibrant.

Isac: I bet.

Me: So it's cool to talk about weed here?

Isac: Yep. Most of us smoke. Ingrid doesn't, tho. She's cool about it...just avoids it.

Me: Who's she?

Isac: She the one that greeted you at the counter.

Me: Ah, I see. Anything new with the band?

Isac: We wrote a 90 second song called Salamander. Kinda fast and crazy. Has a diminished progression of power chords starting on the low F...we might develop it further...might leave it as is. Might scrap it.

Me; Cool. Been there.

Just then, Jeremiah walked up. The 3 of us talked for a few minutes. I then went back to the office and filled out a few forms. Basic stuff...application, tax info, and a disclaimer of an average sort. Jeremiah gave me his number to save in my phone and vice versa. He gave me 3 shirts, shook my hand, and said goodbye. I went back to Isac, got his key, said farewell, and left.

On the way to Isac's apartment, I stopped at a liquor store and got a 12 pack of beer and a fifth of lemon rum. I had no plans of getting wasted but I've always thought it middle-class luxury to have alcohol on hand. Whenever I see a movie, tv show, or even a friend with alcohol on hand at their home, I envy them...like it's okay to be jealous...or to think that's part of being a successful adult. I know that's just a nonsensical opinion...probably based out of some misguided understand from childhood, but still.

I got to Isac's around 5pm. He said he'd be home after 6:30pm, so I sat down with a beer and smoked a bowl. It took a moment or 2 to figure out his remote situation but I was pleased to find that he had only basic cable. I find excessive cable pointless. Tv isn't all that stupendous. Ultimately, there was nothing on. I perused his dvd rack and found a documentary on 90s Punk, so I put that in and enjoyed some time alone.

Chapter 10

A few minutes before my shift ended, Etta sent me a text looking to buy some smoke. I texted her back letting her know just to meet me at my place around 6:45. I clocked out, said goodbyes, and took off. When I pulled into my parking lot, I noticed Etta's car. Figured as much. We exchanged pleasantries and I explained about Dartanius living with me.

Dartanius is inside riffing away on his guitar at the dining room table. Hellos are said. I check out his guitar real quick...seems like a nice ax. I guess I couldn't care less about owing one but it will be nice to have access to an 8...roommates are good for that kinda thing. He doesn't seem like the type of prick that wouldn't allow me to use his shit while he's at work and whatnot. I mean: He did hand it to me without me asking.

He tells me that he bought some beer and that Etta and I are welcome to have one. Etta does, but I pass. What I really want is a fucken shower...instead I have a roommate and a weed sale to attend to. I realize I'm in a bogus mood, so I change my mind on the beer.

Excuse myself to my room "to get weed" but I take a few minutes to change clothes and lay on my bed for a moment. I haven't came home to someone since Diana. It really hits me that a 2 bedroom apartment that was once entirely my private area of the world has been reduced to this bedroom. The rest is community space. I sigh and remind myself to stay positive. Sacrifice leads to rewards unforeseeable.

Sit on the edge of my bed and do a dab. Open the window, exhale. Almost instantly, I begin to realize that I never really gave a fuck in the first place. Chuckle to myself. Step out of my room and tell Etta and Dartanius to step into my office.

Ends up I weigh out 2 quarters, one for each of my friends. I pack a bowl and the bong goes around the room.

Etta: So, Dartanius...why are you here in Somewhere, Ohio?

D: What do you mean?

Etta: No one comes here. People escape from here to cities like Detroit, New York, or L.A.

D: No one escapes to Detroit.

Etta: No...no on escapes from Somewhere. Folks go to Detroit all the time. Decrepit as it probably is, there is a magnetism.

Me: A lot of bands come out of Detroit. We all know that bands often live in cities that surround big cities and claim the big city as their home base.

D: This is true. Kinda annoying, really. But yeah, there is a music scene. There is a big city atmosphere but it's not like any other big city. Hard to explain. I just never took to it.

Me: But some of those bands, dude...

D: ...I guess. We don't choose where we come from. We're just born where we are. We linger where we do. We wind up where we end up. Do you really want to hear about my past?

Etta: Yeah. You can keep it a secret if you want but nothing happens in Somewhere unless you play a show or shit like that. Why anyone would end up here is beyond us.

Me: Yeah.

D: Fine. I never lived in Detroit. Besides going to concerts, I avoided the city. I don't like big cities. I don't see the beauty in ghettos. I don't give a fuck about Detroit's potential. I think graffiti is obnoxious. Rap and Hip Hop can bite my ass.

Etta: Amen to that.

D: The radio personalities are all cunts. There is so much human and literal trash in and around Detroit that to grow up in Wayne county means you're partially a lower-class fuckup.

Etta: So where'd you hang out?

D: It's called Downriver. A bunch of cities south of Detroit with varying levels of hooditude. I lived in Wyandotte...a town full of idealistic, old White people that wanted to rip my tattoos off with their tacit condemnation. Grew up in Melvindale, which is just a shithole....here...Isac...break this bud up and put it in the bowl.

Me: Okay.

D: Anyway, Downriver is a lot like Somewhere. Neighborhoods, parks, stores, schools, churches, etc. I could go weeks without really seeing any pathetic idiots, then I'd go to the mall or a coney and be bombarded by the most ridiculous assholes in the country. Unhealthy drug addict fucks that look like they don't know that human beings are actually civilized creatures.

Etta: We've got our fair-share of White trash around here.

D: I don't doubt it. Thing about White trash is that...it's like: If I keep talking about this shit, my head is going to explode...Detroit is just fucking depressing. The music scene sucked...they defined rebellion exactly how they were taught to.

Me: What do you mean by that?

D: They do what they've seen done. You know how you hear about the underbelly of Punk culture and how it's socially forward and radical?

Me: Yeah.

D: Detroit Punk and Ska are bereft of that. No one is real. They're just p.c. rockstar wannabes. They are more Emo than Punk.

Me: Well there is a lot of good Emo-influenced Punk...and Punk-influenced Emo.

D: Sure, but it's not inherently Punk. Ska is just the same. 3rd Wave garbage that has been going around since the 90s. Punk is fucking lazy. Honestly, it seems that Punk doesn't give a fuck. Here we sit in the year 2015 during a time of great social change and Punk is busy getting fat under the musical radar. Punk has lost its muchness and doesn't seem to give a fuck. It's gimmicky in its nostalgic state.

I didn't know what to say to that. Is Punk just something for friends to do these days?

Etta: It seems that Punk...and Ska were kinda sidelined by the tv. Tv really made Pop Punk into something too digestible. Watered down. Basic. It doesn't piss parents off. Parents these days grew up on 90s Pop Punk. I get what you're saying, Dartanius. Punk doesn't offend anymore.

D: When I think of old-school Punk, it seemed to offend because it was made by offended people. Now it's perpetuated by atavistic drunkards, pretty people, fuckers too smart to be furious, fakes, Hip Hop artists, tree huggers...

Me: ...philosophical idealists...

D: ...doubt it. I doubt there is one Punk lyricist out there that has anything truly relevant to say. If they did, the music would spread like wildfire.

Etta: That's all well and good, but why did you leave Michigan?

D: Because I knew it was the only way to redeem myself...the only way to fix my reputation was to become a Punk legend. To be filthy fucking rich and a household name. It's more than just proving everyone wrong. It's proving that I was right all along.

Etta: About what?

D: About everything. That EVERYONE is full of shit. From my family to my friends to the jackass standing on the corner minding his own business. I have to become a living god to prove to everyone I used to know that they are cruel, immature fuckers that got me wrong.

Me: Then why'd you bail?

D: Because no one deserves to have to do that. I wanted to overthrow the American government.

Etta: It needs to be overthrown.

D: Perhaps. Tho, to do so, a leader would have to emerge. I don't wanna be that guy.

Etta: Only those that can dream it can be it.

D: And, those that can't imagine it treat the dreamer like a skitzo. I got sick of the megalomania. I got sick of imagining conversations with people that refuse to talk to me on a real level. I doubted if anything was real. I spiralled in and out of reveries to a sickening extent. I realized something, tho.

Me: And what's that?

D: That my problem was that I cared. At the end of the day, I cared about humanity. They say hate takes more energy than love. I couldn't love people because there were too many reasons to hate them...to avoid them...to just sit around and wait for anyone else in this stupid fucking country to figure it out too, step up, and be the leader America needs...not just punkers and Ska kids, but all of us.

Etta: Politicians aren't doing it.

D: Fuck no they aren't! But it's not my place to give a shit. Not when no one else really does.

A lull washed over the 3 of us. I couldn't help but side with Dartanius...yet, I felt removed from his experience. It was obvious he'd gone thru some shit I could scant imagine. It's strange how fucked up some lives turn out. I've considered the Punk philosophy as much as the next punker, but it seems that some just plain live the experience to a greater degree. I mean: It's one thing to be aware of the harsh realities of life, it's another to live thru them.

I've been lucky. Sure, I've went thru all that shit with Diana...I've had some sketchy experiences...but, Dartanius is living with an intensity I just don't get.

He started talking but my mind was adrift. I more or less allowed myself to take in his aura. He really caused me to consider my life and how lucky I was by comparison. His passion, tho tragic, was magnetic. He honestly seemed like he could be some unimaginably influential leader, but we live in this era when our leaders lack humanity. Dartanius embodied everything pure...in a way, I guess.

D: I would see people I used to know at coffeehouses and they'd act like they were never young. Like they had given up on the concept of rebellion. Not saying it's prudent to be rebellious and against the grain all one's life, but it's important to let rebellion always have its place in life. Like this one time...I had quit a job because the owner had a prejudice against body mods. A couple months later, I seen some dude I worked with...he looked at me like I was the one in the wrong. Fucker of it was that he had tattoos. He was a musician. I always feel like tattooed musicians should side with me, but they don't.

Me: Side with you?

D: Yeah...like: I can't believe the amount of people that don't care. Not just idealistic, religious-minded narcissists....but tattooed and pierced people. We live in a country where people will lash out at you for saying something is "gay" or smoking a cigarette in public but people excuse body mod discrimination. It gets me so fucking upset that I trip out....

I realized that Dartanius was unloading and probably wasn't going to stop. Etta thrives on shit like this. She minored in Psychology, so she's got a penchant for disturbing mindsets. Sure, it makes her a great friend...no matter what you say, she's always got an open ear. Yet, she pulls it out of people...her eyes scream: "Go on!" So people do.

I'm not high enough for this shit so I roll a fat joint. The clock reads 7:13pm and I can see this conversation dragging out for another hour or 2, unless Etta's got some place to be.

Dartanius continues talking. Etta eggs him on. I light the joint, take a couple drags, pass it along, grab my 3/4 scale guitar and start fucking around with it.

D: ...I'm seriously to the point where I don't trust anyone when they say that shit will be okay. I've listened to people, I took their words. I gave optimism the bigger benefit of the doubt...yet, life is always, always choking me out. Even this job at Schmucko's and having some sort of semblance of a normal life in Somewhere is something I can't fathom.

Me: Dude, as long as you show up at Schmucko's you'll be okay.

D: You don't understand, Isac. I'm weird. I'm not like other people. Not even like the weirdos. My existence seems to fuck with people. I can speculate as to why, but excuses aren't reasons.

Etta: You make people consider weird stuff.

D: Probably...and that weirdness is just part of me. I always get this look from people older than me...it's this look of : "How dare you treat me like I'm not smarter than you!" Yet, I ponder why they're acting so fucking stupid. I think it's got a lot do with expected respect.

Me: Expected respect?

D: Yeah. I'm expected to respect my elders but it's like: Older generations have a warped sense of respect. They demand I respect them just for being older, but it's not respect I fail to give them. I just find 99% of people to be dull. How am I supposed to kiss the ass of some old fuck stuck in a generational mindset? I reject my own generation's mindset. The whole idea of a generational mindset seems lazy.

Etta: Willful brainwashing.

D: Somewhat. Kinda yeah. It makes me think of how a band can come out and define a generation or a subculture. To be part of that subculture is great, but, to me, it's like those people think within the limitations of established/establishing mindframes.

Me: Well, philosophies influence and compel.

D: Sure. Some...probably most...people need that. The truly creative show us new limits of the imagination but if you are one of those truly creative people, you'll always see people as mindless fucking assholes that exist within parameters. AND! You'll watch people rationalize that the limitations they know are the absolute extent of limitation.

Etta: The infinite has no limit.

D: Fucked up part is that everyone knows this, yet fuckers let it slip their minds. This is why social change takes forever. This is why prejudice is still excusable. The average person needs a concrete understanding of humanal limitation. Uncertainty will cause many to stroke-out. People need definition...

Again, I start to space out. His talking becomes a backdrop to my own guitar playing. If anything, my playing is only slightly influencing his thought pattern. I can tell that Etta is honed in on his ranting, trying to connect as many thoughts as possible. It's obvious that Dartanius is high as hell.

I've encountered a few of what I like to call "pothead philosophers". Their thoughts are great but the weed causes the individual to get ahead of itself. Coherent thoughts mix incoherently. Pointlessness and pointfullness collide. Food for thought is all that ends up being served but if you're bright enough, the bigger picture comes out all the clearer.

The joint comes back to me half of what it was. It's burning slowly, and that's always a good thing. I bogart the joint for a few drags. No one seems to notice, but I know they do because smokers always know the location of the weed when it's going around a circle.

I pass it off and start fucking around with a few Jazz chords I know. I think it's funny how guitarists call them Jazz chords when they're not exclusively Jazz. We all know they're 7th chords or whatever...simple shit...that we define the ordinary as obviously ideal. Fans of Metal...that modern instrumental, melodic, um...dare I say "Pretty Metal"?...well they love Jazz chords. I guess they find usage in the chords in a non-Jazz sense...

Me: ...what?

Etta: Are you listening?

Me: I'm here doing drugs with you. My head is many places.

Etta: What are you thinking about?

Me: Guitar chords. What were you talking about?

Etta: I need your lighter. I asked you 3 times.

Me: Oh...here.

Etta: Thanks. So Dartanius...

And I shut off again. I've been in enough of these circles to know when I'm a 3rd wheel.

Me: Excuse me, you 2. I need to use the bathroom.

Etta: Good luck.

Chapter 11

So I do my business and then find my way to the kitchen. Prepare ice water. I've found that while smoking, water is ideal. Everything else causes the munchies, except for alcohol and I'm hardly in the position to get drunk along with high. There is a 16oz. orange juice in the fridge...it's true that a nice blast of fruit juice can benefit a high, but I just brushed my teeth. Regardless of how great marijuana actually is, smoking is gross...and I'd brush my teeth after every joint or bowl if I could.

Go back into my room and find the conversation a bit less intense. Which was nice. Sometimes, the uneventful is the easiest to enjoy.

Our small gathering ended shortly after. Etta got a text from Danny and had to go. I was tired, so I called it a night. Dartanius went to his room and before I knew it, my alarm was going off to get up for work. After doing my whole bathroom routine, I got dressed and went out into the kitchen. On the fridge was a note from Dartanius. He had stayed up late and decided to come in a bit later than me. I figured it was for the best, anyway. I rather like starting the day with just a few people at Schmucko's. Less to do gives me more time to warm up. Training days are always a bitch.

Go to work. Do things. 8:45am rolls around and Jeremiah walks up to me.

Jeremiah: Your boy quit, Isac.

Me: What?

Jeremiah: Dartanius...he just texted me that he quits.

Me: No shit? Why?

Jeremiah: Didn't really say. Said he was sorry but didn't need the job. I already called some other dude...said he'll be here at noon for training.

Me: Wait...Dartanius quit?

Jeremiah: Yep. You know why?

Me: No. He seemed fine yesterday. He left a note saying he stayed up late, but that's no reason to quit. Weird.

Jeremiah: Yeah, weird. Anyways, the new guy is named Andrew. He'll be here at noon. Your new charge.

Me: Yeah, cool. Shit...

I went in the back room and called Dartanius. No answer. Leave voicemail. Shoot him a text. No answer. Call back an hour later. No answer. At 11am, Nancy came in for her shift. I told Jeremiah I was going to run home real quick and see if I could figure out what was up with Dartanius. I was also tripping because, I dunno, he could be a thieving piece of shit.

I get home and there's his key on the table. A note from Dartanius reads:

Isac,

Thanks for the hospitality. The winds pull me elsewhere. Sorry. Later.

Dartanius

I checked my apartment and nothing was missing. The 3 shirts Jeremiah gave him were on the table. He even left his beer. Shit. I went back to work. Ended up calling around to people...Etta and the rest...seeing if they heard from him. Nope. Not a single one of us heard anything from him for years.

Next thing I heard of Dartanius was online. I was fucking around on UsVideology.com, checking out bands and whatnot. I got an update from some major label in my subscriptions. It was some Ska band from Arizona that landed a huge deal. Their guitarist/singer: Fucken Dartanius. Only he didn't go by Dartanius. He was now Michael Sedgrick. I tried contacting the band...contacting Dartanius...but I never got a response.

When his band came around on tour, I went to the show in Cleveland. Ended up talking to him but it was kinda fucked. All sorts of people wanted to talk to him. I felt like some autograph-hungry fan. He ended up pulling me aside, tho.

Me: Dartanius, what's up, man?

D: Isac. Hello. I'm great. How are you?

Me: Good.

D: How is the band?

Me: Oh...we split up some time ago.

D: Figured as much.

Me: What do you mean by that?

D: You guys just didn't have "it". I knew it that last night we hung out with Etta.

Me: What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

D: I was on a journey to find the few people in this world that truly understand genius. Instead of causing me to be a brilliant genius, I ended up being some sniveling, loquacious jackass. Things I didn't care about became the only things I wanted to talk about.

Me: And your bandmates are different?

D: Yeah. I don't have to fucken explain anything to them. They just get it.

Me: Dude, whatever.

D: Thanks for coming to the show, tho.

Me: Rockstar.

With that, he left. I went back to my life. He and his band became the biggest Ska band in a long time. They brought forth the 4th Wave. Dartanius (Michael) became a guitar legend. I've listened to his cds...they're phenomenal. As much as I think he's a self-involved prick, he does have the talent, so I guess it's best to just be happy for him and be glad he wasn't a thief.

I didn't talk to him ever again. Didn't want to. Ended up going to one of his concerts year later, but just blended into the crowd. Skanked a bit. I don't tell people that I knew him. I figure that if I did, they'd want to know what he, Michael, is like. I only met Michael that one time. Whoever Dartanius was, he's long gone. The only solace I find is that the world is probably a better place without him. He was just some stranger that passed thru my life.

-The End

