Fucked

Fucked, an interactive novel by the kid you never
really knew, but liked to think you did.


Chapter I.


Who (Did) Mad(k)e Who?


When I was 9 I dreamt of writing the great American novel.
By the time I was 19 I hoped to stay alive long enough to write
a grocery list, or a 'things to do list'. The latter being one of these
silly compulsive quirks of mine that I'd at some point in time turned
into a magical mind-clearing-re-focusing-technique.
The list would look something like this:

1. Take out the trash
2. Fix car's air conditioner
3. Get a job
4. Find god
5. Get a life…
6. Go to the DMV
7. Traverse the Amazon
8. Go back to school, and then the moon
9. Pay Michelle back, and stop making lists.

I know… I was the only devil in hell flying about with an organizer.
Ridiculous, I had a poncho like Clint Eastwood, hair like Jesus of Nazareth,
more LSD than Timothy Leary (in a bible with a false back cover),
and enough treacherous friends to back stab me into Caesar's heaven.
All with a cute little organizer, ah the nineties. But dealing drugs was for
the birds. I'd watched it pretty much destroy my father. He did 15 years
behind bars during the first 23 years of my life. Doesn't leave a lot of time
to do the old ball toss in the backyard that's for sure. Not that my dad was
the ball throwing kind of guy, or I was into balls, yet (that's an inside joke
some of my closer friends will laugh at).

He taught me more important lessons and activities than that: Like the old jump
out of your car, rip your shirt off, and kick that guy that just cut you off in traffics ass at the next light. The drug dealer's walk of bravado and machismo
(which looked a bit like a drunk pirate with a hard-on trying to figure out where
he docked his ship). The cell phone answer of coolness at the Sizzler's salad
bar (always embarrassing for us kids present because cell phones back then
looked like back packs) and of course, the look of death, that moment of eye
contact between you and your adversary that said "I will fucking suck your
eyeballs out of your ass if you don't check your shit, fucker".

I love my dad so much it hurts... but God damn if I can barely be in a
room with him more than an hour before I realize that we don't actually have
that much in common beyond the given, so I walk out of the room.
When I was younger, things were different, when he got in trouble?
My life was thrown into a spiral of chaos and fear. My mother had abandoned
me for a life of nomadic witchery, flesh and myth. So where do I live when dad
goes back to the clink each time 7 years here, 4 years there, one year over
yonder? With whomever hasn't gotten sick of me from the stint before.
I worked my way through 27 states, mostly, Detroit, Los Angeles, Reno,
Las Vegas, Kauai, Chicago, Philadelphia (as far as long periods in cities went).

My salvation lied in the fact that I was highly literate and pleasant on the eyes.
I also turn into the devil if you piss me off. I'm loyal, an autodidact and
courageous, and known to crack a joke or two even when the horse is dead,
and the saddle weighs too much to carry home -- because there is no home.

My grandparents did their best. On one side the liberals,
on the other, the conservatives. From West coast to East
coast over and over again. Now I'm a libertarian, get it?
No, because you don't even know what a libertarian is.

I went to four different high schools in three different states,
never graduated, but graduate(d) from what?
Come on everyone! lets get all dressed up and celebrate
a lifetime of professional labor devoted to a system of
centralized banking that's so bent on your destruction you
might as well do a Forrestal (Famous admiral that
jumped off his own boat, because he discovered the truth
about aliens and what they were doing).

Come on Everybody! Pat each other on the backs at the
institution of daydreaming-suburban-materialists,
or urban-chrome-spun-rim hipness in the eyes of those
bent on four more years at their parent's almamador [sic].
Fuck that, I can't stand school(s), a perfect device created
by the rich elite to dumb down generation after generation
of programmed middle to upper middle class drones.
The real information is hidden in some of the strangest
folds imaginable. And I'm going to take you back there
with me, are you ready? Good, get ready for magic.



Chapter II: of Fucked: The Lord of The Whys


The Lord Of The Whys


Hedwig kidnapped me when I was five, and stole me off
to an island in the middle of the Pacific ocean, Kauai, Hawaii's
sexy first cousin. Hedwig's my mom... She's totally fucking crazy.
See, Hedwig, or Marianne; as she likes to be called when she's not
Heather, Annie (pronounced Aunnie), or Satan (just to name a few) has
some serious issues with her childhood, reality, the devil and the supernatural.
Cool huh? Yeah, when you're not her oldest son, and you can watch her
swallow entire cities like a Lilithian Tsunami from the safety of a nearby
mountain. My mother is a man killer. A dragon, literally, for kicks she
walks on hot coals and snorts an eight ball of coke (probably in reverse
order, but true none-the-less) and that's well before noon.

Once a jelly-fish stung me on the leg. My mother (a fine specimen of
Colombian-German fire) dropped her bikini bottom, stood above my leg
and squatted... Shot a steady stream of piss upon my leg for ten seconds
while the entire beach gasped. Proudly, she picked me up still half naked,
flipped her bikini bottom up to her hand with a toe flick, and marched me
home with a cackle of sureness. Sexy huh, but unfortunately, she was
also fiercely jealous, vile, scary, and abusive. I can only compare her
to Grendel's mother in the book Grendel by John Gardner, written in 1971
which of course makes me a bona-fide mother fucking monster.
The cat's out of the bag, at 29 years old... I had an incestous relationship
with my mother, I don't know how, but I do, and all of you are going
to help me figure it out by re-telling it. Just not right now.

Being her son was like a crash course straight out of the CIA operations
handbook: Trust no one, believe nothing, be clean, quiet, know where you
are at all times, and move like a snake through high grass. The training was
Monarch program hypnosis, mind control through fear and terror. Now the
more scared I am the more deadly I become. The only way I can be beat is
to be approached from a non-violent perspective and then suckered or
seduced, and even then I can see fly shit hit a broom handle while sleeping
on the couch. Ah, the couches I've slept on, more stories... I have to tell you
about two things first, the youngest brother's pig incident,
and the boar's rotting face.

My mother fell in love again, this time with a surfer, Ali Kinemaka the
youngest brother of a rather well known Hawaiian family, I could tell you
the story straight out, but this will be "funner" as us idiots in Southern
California like to say: I described it all best like this once before:

Listen: http://iacmusic.com/songs.aspx?S..4478&ArtistID=9993

Read: http://allpoetry.com/poem/450761

Hey, you know, I fucking whistle while I work, enjoy.

Chapter III comes later today, and now an educational video,

http://youtube.com/watch?v=_dmPchuXIXQ&feature=related

I told you this was interactive.
I know the chapters are short but there's
666 of them so...



Chapter III. The Boar


"If you are my son, you'll be able to find your way home."


Once again with the home shit when it doesn't exist. Those were the words
Hedwig left me with in the middle of the jungle when I was 5. She had a gift
for abuse, a knack, having learned from the best, her father Carl, the Nazi.
My mother's family is weird to say the least. I'm not close with any of them.
I'm not close with anything any longer except what I create. I suppose that's
why God ignores so many of us. Most of us just are not his creations.

Before Hedwig left me in the jungle on a day that started off as just another
lovely hike with friends and family there had been a steadilly growing chain
of abuse developing. Incest, physical torture, mental torture, spiritual wrenching,
and sensory deprevation, and then overload. All of the mandatory components for
brainwashing, and creating terror slaves. Make them eat there own piss and
shit and then clean them off with kisses and hugs and lectures of obedience
followed by the prospect of continued love and warmth, but no obedience?
And you get the sun stare and cage, or the boar.

She's walking away -- It's twilight. The purples are shooting the reds and the
yellows are all dead. She turns to me and says "Jeremi, there is a boar that lives
in the jungle that eats little boys." Then she continues on her way. I know that
if I chase her she'll beat me bloody like the last time and the time before that,
so I stay. But I also know that I couldn't run if I tried. I am petrified by fear.
A bush shakes, then another, I close my eyes and pray to the invisible.

The boar approaches me with the stench of a million feasting maggots.
Half of its face is engulfed by the white shifting larvae. Golden course hair,
one sharp tusk and one broken and smashed -- black vacant eyes lock me
into space and reality with calculated timelessnes. "Do you know who I am boy?"
says the boar. "Yes, I do." I reply. "You're the devil.". I turn my back to the beast
hoping for a quick end. The boar just laughs sending hot putrid breath across
my neck,  back and legs. "I am not going to eat you boy...
I am going to teach you".

And the night swallowed my mind in a burst of fire and pain as I realized
that my life was not my own. That this world was a mere shadow of something
bigger. A larger production, a grand scale. I awoke in a clearing.
The stars spun about the sky chasing clouds and greys into blackness.
I sat up and cried for my father.


Chapter IV. The New Miscellaneous


The fever had me hallucinating something fierce.
The cockroaches made there way back and forth from
the sores under my nose to their little banquets. I had drunk
water with pig feces in it, and that's the trouble with island
rainforests. They can kill you, and they often do.
Now I was sicker than hell and fighting for my life.

Hedwig moves in and out my room as a phantom.
Sometimes she looks like an old witch, and other times
an ancient shadow when the lightning outside shines its
spotlights in, I can no longer tell what is real or what isn't,
but that's the trouble with reality; as soon as there is some
outside or inside pressure upon the way you view yourself
or your surroundings, you begin to evolve different perspectives
to combat the shifting sands of what is and what isn't absolute
when the truth is neither matter.

My mother's little sister Ida flys out from Southern California
to Kauai for a visit. When she arrives she isn't prepared to
see the reality of my mother and my relationship.
I am Hedwig's slave tied up and flailed outside.
Forced to weed section of yard and jungle.
Left alone for days at a time, so that Hedwig can go out
and make money any way she knows how. It's this early
programming with Hedwig that keeps me missing her,
keeps me yearning for the whip, screaming out for more
abandonment, laughing wicked eyed and taunting naked
flesh at the jailer.
I can beat masochists at their own game all day long.

Ida breaks me free, and gets me on a plane to Michigan.
I couldn't go to Southern California because my father had
gone back to prison again, and his parents weren't ready,
yet, to give up their early retirements to take care of another
child. I'm almost 6, and about to start first grade.
I'm starting a new life with relatives I've never met in a city
I have never been to. This isn't my first time doing this.
I know how it works. I should smile a lot, and be polite.
Thank them for giving me a home when no one else would,
and get to work at being the new miscellaneous.



Chapter V. What To Do With All These Words?



Hedwig taught me how to read. You can still see the blood on
the pages of the books that she used. Thankfully,
I was a quick learner. I was born in the 70's,
so television didn't quite interest me the way that books do.
My first book was Hawaiian mythology. Two things:
Mythology set the tone for me right
out the gate, as far as subject matter,
and if you lost a book on Hedwig's watch?
You'd soon not forget it, because she would
duct tape it to your hand if she found it before you.
Now to this day if I can't find a book?
I go a bit bonkers, psychic residue's a bitch.

First grade talent show had singers, dancers,
jokesters, and me the kid with an adult reading level in first grade.
Video games just hadn't been exponentially reproduced yet,
so books were the staple. By the time I was out of Hedwig's
web, and living with my grandparents in Detroit
I was a full-blown bookworm. Grandma Kim had been
caught fucking the neighbor. My grandfather raised the roof,
and Kim found God, and a couple extra hundred pounds.
Which left me eating well, with Jesus. After Hawaiian Mythology
I tackled Judaic-Christian parables, which came with a whole lot
of church and faith indoctrinated fear, which I could have done without.

It took a little getting used to, the snow, these strangers which were
my family that I never knew, having an uncle 5 years older that was
like a big evil brother, and all of the new rules. The nightmares and the
bed-wetting arrived right on time. Hedwig was always in my dreams
hurting me and breaking my spirit.
It didn't take long after that to start my next bad habit, lying,
Skill-fully too I might add. I can't honestly say why I lie(d) so much,
but I'll take a stab at a few guesses: I want to fit in and
be interesting too. When you have parents like mine it's always better
to go with death by wing walking than the truth (that they're criminals
and sociopaths). I got sick of repeating the same old narratives about
why I lived with my grandparents.

Naturally with the lying came monumental ass whippin's,
and hundreds of sentences. The sentences usually looked something
like this "I will not lie to my class about things I've never seen or done".
My grandmother did the only thing that a god-fearing woman in her
position could do to handle my mischievousness.
She called up her sisters of the church. They formed a prayer
circle around me and exorcised the demon of lies that dwelled
inside of me. I played along, they were thrilled, we all had a good cry,
but of course it was another lie.

I discovered a few things about myself while waiting in Detroit for
3 years from the age of 6 till 9 until my father got out of prison.
I was an excellent liar, very active and physically adept at sports,
and smart, really smart. I have a photographic memory and my math
linguistics and reading comprehension levels are off the chart,
but I act out, I'm rebellious, and occasionally I have the common
sense of a drunken elephant.



Chapter VI. The First Shot Is The Deepest


She slid my sleeve up because it was cold as fuck in the flat,
And I was dressed warm. "Hamtramck has more bars per square
block than any other place in the world", so at least some drunk once
told me, but I skipped the bar scene and went straight to heroin.
I forget her name. She was one of my roommate's girlfriends, Dave…
The orange cap of the syringe balanced between her teeth as she found
her mark. I have great veins. This was the second time I was giving
"smack a chance", as Tim Buckley so adamantly put it during his 60's
live troubadour show (don't ask me how I know this shit, I know everything,
and I have the cd).

We fucked like groggy panthers, all half dick and weird positions.
She had great tits. That's about all I remember,
but not really. Normally I don't have a libido on boy
(street slang for heroin). I obviously had made an exception.
Really tight pussy, freckles… What the fuck was her name?
Either Melissa or Lisa, Melissa. That was the first and only time
that we ever fucked. That's a bad omen.

The first time I shot up was a few weeks back. Well 1994 to be exact.
Winter in the big D (Detroit), it can drive a man to strange past times.
Actually I think it was because I was bored. Oh, and I'd drank an 18 pack.
I realized right then, with the needle in my arm, even after having lost
an uncle to a heroin overdose that I just didn't give a fuck, I was crazy.
I was 20. It warmed my toes and gave me the gags like a sound blowjob.
The problem was finding someone after that night to teach me how to
shoot up myself, that's where Melissa came in. I can't stand depending
on people. The sex was obviously just a bonus round, yippee! And?
I fucked her well, I think.

Before I knew it everyone was shooting dope. John Travolta,
Eric Stolz and Quentin Tarrentino had destroyed a generation in
one fell cinematic swoop, Pulp Fiction. Personally, I liked the movie,
but lets face it. Why watch when you can eat. My friends were loaded.
I was loaded. We all conspired all day to get loaded. It was like a really
bad opera and no-one could fucking sing a note in key. And where are
they now? Not writing the book, bet on that. So… what kept me from
turning into a junky and a convict? Nothing. By that time I already was
a convict, and had learned freedom is no price to pay for a dopamine
orgasm, and I have a problem with burnt spoons making my lower lip all black.

I was dealing a lot of coke and acid those days at the raves along with
nitros oxide and whatever else I could get my entrapanurial hands on.
I also was doing industrial roofing. The heroin honestly helped me
mellow out a bit and not want to kill and fuck and kill and fuck all day if
that makes any sense at all.

See, with cocaine and acid comes a lot of sleepless nights and a lot of
weirder friends. It's good to come home and finally get some sleep.
A little shot and the big bad day goes bye bye. But the little spider
monkey on your back turns into King Kong unless you got your wits
about you, or you're just exceptionally lucky. I'm both.



Chapter VII. Grinder Haven



There's a stink here on Holt Blvd. The stink of love.
Sandwiches, grinders actually, that's a sub people.
Laura is all teeth, laughter, and sex appeal.
I don't even know what sex is yet, but if and when
I do it's going to be Laura. She's tiny and perfect
with all of the proper attributes. I can smell her a mile
away and it's all pheremones and inevitabilities.

I'm 15 and she's 17, and that's all there is to it.
I day dream next to her while spreading avocado
thick on the buns of the future. We love renting movies,
and pretending that we're adults by begging for our
parent's cars to fine dine out at a Red Lobster or Marie Calenders.
We're strip mall southern californian brats, and I wouldn't
have it any other way. Laura touches me and lets me touch her.
I'm in love for the first time, and I'm in love with it.

She gets really wet, and she uses spermicide, so that I can
cum inside of her. Her skin is a flat olive brown, and her eyes are big
and innocent. She's more experienced than I am, and thank god.
All I want to do is marry her, and have babies, it's my one wish.

My skateboard rattles along Euclid Ave with the desperation
of a quivering unholstered erection. Laura's going to make me lunch.
I hope she's going to be lunch. It takes me 40 minutes to skate to her
house, and 4 minutes to climax once there. Laura appreciates my love.
She respects just how whipped I really am.

My father is a drug dealer, and Laura doesn't mind, she likes my dad.
Almost everyone does, he's quite the charmer. Laura watches me surf,
we do things together with her family. We're even allowed to sleep together
(at my house anyway). She's an aquarius, so I decided to buy her an
amethyst diamond promise ring to ensure my claim to her throne.

Homecoming comes and goes like fall often does.
My father gets arrested again, and this time he's going away for awhile.
I have to leave Laura and sunny southern California to go back to
Michigan again to live. Laura and I go out for the last time.
We take some mushrooms and walk under the stars.
I'm going to miss her. I still do.



Chapter VIII. The Rocket Reds of Reno



Filipinos are either really good in bed, or utter dead lays.
This is exactly what I'm thinking as I pull out and spurt
spunk all over her fat brown nipples, Aida. She has her eyes closed,
and her legs crossed... Somehow, I've managed to climax.

She sounded like I was crashing a jet into her vulva, I'm not
that big so... Either I have a bionic ghost pushing on my ass,
or she's exaggerating enough for the two of us.
Never fuck who you hire, or show them where you live.
I'm 17, this is my first apartment. This is Reno.

I manage the Carl's Juniors in Sparks, and live down the
street from it, and the liquor store, but-that's America in all
cities, que no? I absolutely adore drinking beer, and smoking
good grass. I'm already out of high-school, not that I graduated.
I'm having a great summer, I often do. I look like I'm ten with a
quarter back's body, and I'm licensed to drive.
Things are good, at least for now.

Crack cocaine, when first smoked, is like 100 orgasms flushing
your mind out your asshole, it's riveting. Occasionally you'll
meet someone that'll just turn you out. I hired this brother fresh
out of prison, and before I knew it we were smoking crack, a lot.
I know, hard to imagine me sucking on a crack pipe huh?
Yeah, well it's hard to imagine anyone sucking a dick, but look how
many of you do. I'd rather smoke crack, and lick a few, cracks.

The air is weird in Reno. It has a high elevation, and a lot of cowboys.
I lived in a trailer with my grandmother in Sun Valley, just outside of the city as a kid.
It's a heap of shit in the middle of fucking nowhere (not our house,
but the whole of Sun Valley). Literally the largest trailer park in the world.
A real fucking armpit. Cold and windy, and lonely as all hell. "Hella" drugs,
gambling and pissed of kids.

Tahoe looms in the distance like an ugly splotchy bear.
I can't afford to go there let alone live there. We live
here by the Truckee trickle, that's the river.
Sometimes we bowl, often we throw rocks at cars,
and get drunk in caves. I know, what a night life.

I spent from 13 until 15 here and then went back to Los Angeles
until I was 16, and then off to Detroit and then back to Reno.
So when the Navy asked me if I wanted to join, and be a SEAL
after I scored well on my ASVAB, and qualified physically,
heading to the first Persian Gulf war began to look like
a vacation. Reno has a way of doing that to you.

My last night in Reno, I slept with a girl that had one arm.
I really liked it, but... Need I say more?



Chapter IX. Dude, Your Girlfriend’s Dead...



Shane was one of my best friend's (Shannon's) older brother.
We weren't that tight, but we did have business together.
He arrived at my second apartment in Hamtramck (the first flat burnt...)
with two blondes to buy a pound of mexican brick weed.
I was rife with heroin eyes, and long hair and prick.
The short chubby cute one, Heather, was my next victim.

See, Shane was just getting into Smack at the time.
I had been dancing with it for a few years.
The girls were even fresher, and I usually have a rule,
but tonight was going to be all kinds of different.
We were going to a party. We had fucked and shot
up all the night before; we had done our deal, and we
were celebrating. The death of logic.

Daphne was her name, and I think it was one of her friend's party.
She was Evil-Knievel-dumb, high on heroin, and young -- way too young.
Shane was taking a real chance on this one.
After we parked in the basement of the bash -
- we proceeded to pull out our rigs and get seriously high.
These kids hadn't seen anything like that.
We were the cool adults, being suicidal in our own chicanery.

Freshly stoned, we all sighed like cats in a sun box.
I reached over and rubbed Heather's pussy, she smelled
like burning gardenias and ants. Randy and sweet like a slumber party.
Tonight, I was going to let her ride until I scabbed...

Until Daphne decided to turn blue.
I still remember it like yesterday.
All the kids dancing, and talking, and kissing, and smoking.
Daphne bluer than an ice cube in a waterspout.

I Said to Shane, "Dude, your girlfriend's dead".
To which he replied "so..." I said "seriously, take a look"
He did, then stood up and ran. The party panicked. Kids
fled as if from a pack of nuns with summer school applications.
I looked at Heather, slid over to the couch next to Daphne
motioned to the kid whose parents owned the house to put
down the phone, and started to breathe into Daphne and
massage her heart.

She woke up, asked for a cigarette -- lit up, and told
us (those left...) that she was pregnant. An hour later she shot
up again. Some people you just have to shake your head about.
I'm the hero that copped her the dope... So much for the nightcap.



Chapter X. The Vice President Of Yada-Yada



I absolutely treasure the civil (dissed) obedient and the corporate asshat.
I mean what better way to reaffirm my position as a libertarian
and a radical thinker than to watch the lemmings jet here and there
in designer clothes -- off on this modicum of adventure and that
business deal of the month, all in the name of routine, programmed status,
and learned behavior. I am extremely unlearned. I'd rather get my cock
sucked for three hundred an hour for two to ten hours a week. Shit, I'd rather
suck a cock to be frank than sell my labor,
and best part of my day to the man.

The ancient Egyptians either hadn't figured that out, or left treasure
in a tomb to draw back the inevitable researcher in the hopes of living forever
through myth and historical record coupled by physical evidence.
I hope I'm eaten alive by a million fucking birds, and not a bit remains.
Yeah mother-fucker, that's how I'm sittin', word. Because no-one is taking
a thing with them into the afterlife. And the majority of you are too busy
shoving cock up your hole and pie down your throat too notice anyway.
Or vice versa. This is Capitalism baby.

I have friends that are so lopsided they
actually identify with their cars. Here's a fact, the movie Christine
was about a 'car' that identified with it's owner(s).
The Fast & The Furious was about teenage hard -
- bodied speed junkies that identified with their car(s).
Those are not the same things.
Now, there's nothing wrong with going fast,
but what the fuck are the gloves and glasses going to do?
Talk about finger banging a cliche to death, please, wake up people.
I don't buy expensive shit personally, because I know
that's just asking for nature to teach me a lesson.
I let other people buy it for me. I am a professional.

I became a prostitute at the age of 19.
Supposedly the oldest trade on the planet.
Only because the angels always come down from heaven
to fuck the little people, otherwise, there'd be no Jesus.
I used the money I made from prostituting my flesh
to advance my auto-didactic nature.
And let me tell you, I almost died for knowledge,
and one day... I still might get my chance.

Some of you have your spinning rims,
I know the name of our galaxies sun.
Others have accumulated power and fortune.
I know who controls your money, and the names of the families
that control the fate of the whole planet.
I know how to summon devils, and angels, and even
wake up in my dreams, or astral project into the future.

While you were at Bally's fitness toning your tits and pecs?
I was in the middle of the desert on peyote talking
to alien races. Call me a nut case, but I'm just a good -
- looking shaman, you say "TV". I say "books".
You say "money", I say "plants", we differ.

He's sucking my cock like he's never seen a cock before,
and judging by his cock... He hasn't.
I truly despise fagging out. Not to sound bias,
or hate driven. I love the homosexual.
He keeps me afloat with his bank account and tunnel vision.

It's just tough to hold your kids after -
- you've decimated your ego, and challenged
your own sexual identity. I know I'm not gay,
but fuck, at least a guy will give you your money
and not call you non-stop with questions bearing
their own fantastic answers for the rest of the week.
The problem with women is normally themselves.
And it goes both ways. Woman, you cannot save me -
- you cannot posess me. I am the heavens and
you are the earth, and I come down too often.



Chapter XI. You Might Feel a Little Pressure



Malibu reminds me of some rich sociopath hippies retirement-
- community. I've been in compounds and mansions in Malibu
that utterly defy logic. I'm not going to name names, but let
me tell you, there's a huge difference between a millionaire
and a billionaire I can assure you.

I'm 24 and expecting a son in a few months.
the account is negative, and the cupboards tapped.
I can't get a job for the life of me, and if I don't
do something quick I'm going to lose the only
family I've ever wanted to create right at the
juxtaposition of sanity, reality, and true love.

Gay porn, yes I know, the mere mention leaves
most in utter terror and disbelief, but be wary
I am no porn star. My porn debut came and went
like a high-school jock at the Mustang Ranch.
I knuckled down, and I drew a deal with some devil.

I was going to be a top (the guy fucking) for a certain dollar figure.
I drove up to the mansion in the sky like Jack up
the Beanstalk, and prepared to fuck man ass.
I know, it still gets me giggling to this day
that is until I laugh so hard I cry.

While I was in the front room I met this kid
sitting on the couch reading a magazine.
We got to talking, he was nice in a queer sort
of way. It wasn't long before I discovered
this would be the guy I was to fuck.
Well, call me weird, but that struck me as
raising the animal you have to kill on the farm.
Of course no-one's going to die, but Jesus.
I just got to know the guy, how can I fuck him?

When it came time to do the scene?
I had major erectile dysfunction, like
in the commercials... Fuck, there goes pay day.
Back in the front room while I'm getting dressed
The reptile (mind & dick pimp) strikes another deal.
This time it's for substantially more money, to bottom (get fucked).
I can't believe I'm contemplating my virgin ass for cash.
Good god this is like a Scorsese film gone perpetually south
Called "who needs to get arrested to have prison sex when
the world's a prison?".

The German's dick is at least 8 inches long.
Fuck, I think... Have I taken a shit that big?
I know, my mind... It has an odd asessment of scales
and fiscal ratios, but please, spare me, it's my ass
not yours, so quit acting like you're sacrificing a fucking thing,
but your morals and values. Which of course were fed
to you through TV, radios, and books from the get go.

These men that claim to be your leaders?
Are some of the most loathing pedaphiles and trick
monsters you've ever imagined. They hire me, then they go
home to their wives. They play the whole coin,
tails and heads while you sit there wondering why the same
people that served you up your DUI sentence, sold you the beer.
It's a metaphor people figure it out.

4 hours later... His dick is still in my ass.
There's a photographer shooting the box cover
Once that's done, I can get out of here
After cleaning up and getting my check
I head straight to the grocery store
I hobble onwards towards the coffee section,
and grind up the most expensive beans I can find.
It's beginning to smell a lot like Christmas.

There was a time when I used to care about
what people thought of me, and now wasn't that time.
Most people cannot form a sentence, but they seem to feel
as though the world revolves either around their
logic, or the tyranical idiot's logic that they voted into
power. I could give two shits. You were not there
when I was made, and you will not be there when
I am unmade. "She came in through the bathroom window"
and so did I. I try not to judge others.

I've never been into sports, or hanging out with friends.
I was a role playing geek that was just dealt a raw hand
from the gate. It's made me who I am, given me a great
sense of humor and taught me even more important lessons
about respecting women and others, especially children.
Besides, I'm a writer and a reader, the craziest of the crazies.

Getting fucked in the ass has its advantages.
You finally get to feel like what a woman must
feel like when she's not completely approving
of the situation, if you know what I mean. It takes
you out of the manly role and puts you in the bitch
role where there are all new advatages and disadvantages.
The tables had turned on me, and I had learned
a very interesting lesson about shoes being on the other foot.



Chapter XII. Fuck, Who Called The Cops?



Mike owned a teen club, yes, you can imagine the Bacchanal spinning
of pubescent girls bumping about to the latest pop and rap hits
Thankfully, I was on enough smack a day to dream away the catcalls.
Most, I mean, but I was merely 21 at the time so...
I bounced there with my uncle Bruce, Bruce is a bad mother-fucker,
and generally a really great uncle.

I mean, other than that time he stuck his cock in my mouth when
we were playing ape men in grade school.
Fucking Bruce, Bruce is the only guy in the world
that could kick your ass wearing bike shorts, water shoes, and
a fanny pack. Bruce however, usually , looked out for me,
but on this one occasion his friendship with Mike balanced out
in his 'opinion' to more than ours.

After the teen club shut down (Mike was always starting and closing these things).
I was his main man to take the place apart and store it all.
I also was the guy that returned to even up the score when
he didn't pay my friend Shane and I, well, actually he wrote
us bad checks that bounced through our accounts like pipe bombs
(different Shane than before).

Naturally, Shane and I borrowed a dozen of Mike's club's TV's.
Well, in good faith of course, and as soon as he payed us
the grand that he owed? Was coincidentally right when we were
going to return the TV's. My grandfather was a Greek gangster.
I'm telling you, I might be nice, and you may think
I'm a little light in the shorts. But ask a motherfucker
that knows me, and they'll swear I put the tan in Satan,
and I will swallow your soul in a monstrous fury of
fist-fuck-and fire, so I think Mike got off easy for
fucking me on this one, and duping my uncle.

Alas, we got nabbed by the po-po in a trailer park
Our two friends that were helping us were going canary.
We could tell by how their lips were moving while
they were in the cop's cars. Turns out a coupel of
old bitches peeking out their curtains decided
to be typical American citizens, snitches.
And the fuzz was waiting for us like we just
knocked down the twin towers. Christ, while rape,
murder and total chaos is reining in the city
of Devil's night. We have easily 20 rollers
investigating our latest bad decision of the month, TV's, wow.

I have 9 thousand in cash that I've been saving at home.
Actually, I'd hustled the bishop of Windsor's Catholic church
for it. That's right, that gold you put in the tithing plate was finally
helping the poor, except, he was giving it to me by the fifty dollar
lap dance. Something about dancing for a priest at the Wild Goose
of all places really gave me a funny boner, still does.

That money at home would disappear if I was arrested,
by all of my best friend's hands of course,
but worse yet I'd have to detox in jail, and I'd miss my
plane to fly out and see my dying grandmother.
I'd vaguely remembered a call earlier that week from
one of my step-mothers. She told me my grandmother
was dying of lung cancer at a facility in Moreno valley
California. I recall mumbling something and then hanging up
the phone, high... I loved that grandma the most,
her name is Sharon, she's dead, we all are.



Chapter XIII. Over The Bridge & Through The Woods...



The back of the patrol car was clean, cleaner than most.
The arresting officer was a rookie, but weren't we all?
I was never hand cuffed; that was his first mistake.
Secondly, he drove away from the scene to a substation –
to pick up a camera for the crime scene. I was alone in the car.
I put my head against the center divider window (to weep no doubt)
When I noticed that the divider was loose and freely floated up
and down. I thought "no way are you going to dig out, are you?"
I love talking to myself, I'm such a goonie.

By the time I'd counted to ten all of the cops were
on the other side of the trailer. Shane was sitting in
the car next to me. My driver's license and Social
Security card were in his car wedged in the airbag's
crevasse on the steering column. So if I was going?
I'd needed to take those with me. No cops for ten seconds.
They must have been staring at those TVs and dreaming
of fruity pebbles, because I went for it.

The look on Shane's face alone was worth the trouble.
You ever shock one of your friends so intensely that
their jaw just plopped to the floor? Or seen a driver get T-boned
from the vantage point of the other car? That's the look.

I hot shotted through the middle window and opened the driver's door,
ran around to the car Shane was in, grabbed my Id's, asked
Shane if he "wanted to go!?", and jammed like skilled peanut butter.
Shane shook his head with a laugh... "You're the fucking shit".
That's all he could muster. I felt like vomiting, adrenaline.

The first things to go were my flip-flops, or "chonklas" as we
like to refer to them as these days in Southern California.
They flew off with a mighty flung-pop-snap right about the time
I hit top speed. My heart was in my throat as I rounded the last trailer,
and saw: The field, the fence, the pond, and then... Sweet forest.
A quarter mile dash to freedom... No shoes. I punched it,
or heeled it rather, and thought how deep could it be? The pond.

I envisioned Jesus about to walk on water, but with Doberman Pinchers
and helicopters chasing him. I leapt the fence, and catapulted myself
towards the pond. It was happening, that's when I realized I
wasn't Jesus. My face hit the water with a mighty smack,
and I skipped a bit before I sank and swam.
I had completely given up trying to be quiet at this point.
Now I was wet, shoeless, and approaching a rather dense forest
at a very high rate of speed. Cue forest sounds,
thorns, and furry creatures.

I ran, and I ran, and I ran... then I puked, and I puked
And I puked. I looked up from the ground, there was Bambi
giving me that weird look in between quick drinks from a puddle.
No helicopters, no blood hounds, no shouts, I think I might be okay
except, I'm about thirty miles from home --. I look as though
I just got in a fight with a squirrelly cougar, the sun is about to set
and I have no fucking shoes. Thank god it's summer.



Chapter XIV. Aqua-lung My Friend...



I collapsed my lung on a day like any other.
I was 22, and living in Southfield Michigan
with my girlfriend Michelle. She was
going to Lawrence Tech university, and I was
working construction, framing houses to be exact.
Hard work, but carpentry can be gratifying
in an idiotic-mathematically-precise drunken -
- rough-neck sort of way.

With a little cash in my pocket, I decided to head downtown
to the spot and get some boy (smack). I met up with Ron and
went to his squat. I had been clean for a few months.
He lived there with his wife Sharon and their three kids;
two boys and a girl.

I hadn't seen Ron for awhile. I had been
on the lamb in Vegas at my aunts for almost a year,
because of the situation with the TVs.
Ron was more than happy to take the money,
and get us dope because it allowed him to get high
as payment for taking the risk of scoring it.
It was also safer. Totally Kosher...

Ron was black and from the McNichols area,
or what Michiganders refer to as 6 mile road.
Even two miles further south than Eminem dared dwell.
It was indeed a very dangerous area. On every block of
twenty or more houses, half were abandoned and being
squatted in. You could get mugged, raped, and even killed.
I personally knew a couple people that died in that
neighborhood, so I was always on my P's and Q's.

Ron scored, and we were higher than stratus clouds
until morning. I wanted to get something to eat, and some
more dope before I left, so that's what we did. We went
to the Coney island, which although was often the scene
of blood and carnage, had amazing food. I ordered
a works-omelet and got busy. The sun was coming up,
and it was colder than shit out, clear, and biting cold.

Upon returning to Ron's I headed up to the bathroom
to get my fix – Belly full, and head all anticipation,
I was telling Ron some story or what not, and I was in
mid-thought upon the push of the drug into my vein.
That's when I felt the wave, bigger, and badder than ever.

I bolted upright from sitting to standing and said,
Oh, oh..." Yes, all my poetry had gone out the
window, and all I had to say about dying was
"Oh, oh..." then everything went black.
My mind, for the first time ever, stopped.

I woke up partially clothed in a bath-tub full
of melting ice, yes, I know – it was quite cinematic
yet, not a realistically sound procedure from a medical
perspective. Apparently Ron had breathed for me
through fits of vomiting up the works-omelet out my nose.
Ron had saved my life, but now I was awake, and not feeling
at all well. Something was seriously wrong with
my breathing, and the way my chest felt. Heavy, burnt.

I slowly scrambled out of the tub. I had no pants on, just boxers,
a triple fat goose jacket and socks. I was soaking wet,
and freezing. There was blood and vomit on my face, and nose,
and all through my hair. I had a temperature, and a collapsed lung.
I could barely breathe. I needed to get out of there.
I needed to get home. I looked outside the window
which wasn't hard because it was only blowing plastic.
It was night. I just didn't know what night.

My socks sloshed across the upstairs floor.
I made my way down the stairs. The occupants
of the front room hooted and ah'd to my return
from the dead. They recanted the story for me
of how I had died, and convulsed and asphyxiated
on my own vomit. Potatoes and eggs had leapt from
my nose like a sneezing leper. Some of them were
actually taking bets on when I'd quit breathing.
Others had their eyes self admittedly on my truck.

I walked out of the house, and right through the screen-door.
It was dawn and three days later. I had been out
for two and a half days. Michelle certainly wasn't going to dig this.
Somehow, I made it home. I crawled out of my truck, and
snailed towards our apartment. She let me in, shook her head,
and went to school.

I took a shower, and washed myself like a rape victim.
I was worried about my lung. I was embarrassed,
but most of all? My head hurt in a spiritually bereft way.
A sad calculated self-absorbed pitiful way.
I had almost died; perhaps I had, but now,
how to fill this lung? A week and a half later
it filled back up naturally. The body is an amazing vehicle.
I obviously had no respect for mine.



Chapter XV. Detroit Raves



The cops approached my nitros tank hand in hand, and barely
in uniform. Both were African American, but one had his hat on off to the side
like that cop that sings YMCA. Their shirts were open, and they had guns and
badges, and flourescent glow sticks. I paused long enough for a throaty laugh.
"How many balloons officers?" I asked with a grin.
"All of them" the one with the cocked hat said,
"and your money too" threw in the other.

They were real cops, when you deal drugs and live in Detroit
you quickly figure out what's real and what's not.
I handed them my nitros and everything I had in my pockets.
The trunk of my car was packed full with crumpled up singles,
tens and fives. I made my get away, and let the hyenna's
have their lion's share. When I went to the bank in those days
I must have looked like the happiest fucking waiter alive.
Pillow cases I tell ya, these were good times. Detroit was going off.

Every weekend there were parties the size and likes of
which kids these days couldn't imagine. I'm talking
abandoned high-rises like the Packard building, and other
auto giants that had closed down being filled to the brim
with drugs, fucking, alchohol and house thumping techno.
Everyone was on Ex, and acid, and everyone was on fire.
Sometimes up to ten thousand young adults. The money
the promoters and dealers were making was ridiculous.

The line to and from the nitros tanks were endless,
and when you ran out there were going to be small riots.
I'd literally have to sneak away occasionally
letting the fishing monkeys have my empty tank to
tip about and squabble over. Acid went much
the same way. I'd buy a dozen packs of giant
juicy fruit gum and pull out each stick to back with
acid and re-wrap. Convenience and organization
can be bliss.

I knew everyone just enough to know nobody,
and that was a two way street. Winters were impossible
to find work, so when at the bazzar why not have something
to barter with. Jerry Garcia was still alive, and so was Kurt Cobain.
The nights were alive with gun shots and grunge music.
A new hippy movement was gestating, but it was as doomed
as the first. It simply wasn't grounded in myth or reality.
Not enough to make a difference.

My mind raced on drugs daily, nightly, perpetually analyzing
itself and the limitless scenarios that abounded within
the confines of this industrial midwest giant. I was alive,
and I was evolving into a different creature. I consumed
everything that I could until I could no more then I'd pause
catch my breath and do it all again. Love came and went like
the sun. Pain picked up the mess.

I had everything I never needed, and nothing that I should have
deserved. My education became a game, a matrix of dark business
and violence. A mad dance that soaked the shirt with blood and sweat,
and then tore it off to part time as a bandanna. There was no safe place,
yet was there ever? I wanted more time and space to learn about
god, and myself. I needed to fly the night through dawn. A warlock
high on victims and scented colored flesh. A monster the likes
of which Mary Shelly could have been proud of. My blood
went thick and my mind fractured into a million bits of light.
I had found some perfect hell. Yes, I had chiseled out a throne.

The girls spun about me wet and shiny. Pulling my hair, and
kissing my shoulders. I thought of Odysseus, and Circe
I was getting what I deserved, more than the mind could process.
They drew in tight about me, all breasts and teeth. My breathing
slowed and heavied. Someone whispered in my ear "Jeremi, jeremi..."
I opened my eyes and there I was staring right back at me.
hair curled like horns, eyes an open emerald. I put my finger to
my mouth and shooshed. I put my finger to its mouth,
pulled the lips back and opened them up to climb inside.



Chapter XVI. The G.I Hole



The G.I Hole was something right out of a Chuck Palahniuk novel.
Because I certainly couldn't have made it up -- it was a punishment
during the mandatory work-week at the Naval Recruitment Center
in Chicago. Not particularly a punishment for me per say, but for
any rebellious cad that found himself at the end of some
C.O's wrath during his boot-camp brainwashing-- I was
one of those lucky cads. I had been in an altercation with my section leader,
a total fuck-berry. I mean a real pickle dick. He had come down on me for
not making my bed correctly (I know, the drama… It's stifling), and naturally
I told him to suck a knob, and pushed him on his ass. He told on me,
and the rest is history. It's like a second grade puppet play gone horribly awry.

It was myself, and some other guy, I can't remember his name in formation
on our way over, but all we could reflect on while heading to the G.I Hole was…
what was the G.I Hole? The name itself lent to some ancient mystery and
subtext behind it all, so we were half curious and half scared shitless.
One thing was for sure, whenever we were asked what our job was during
work-week, and we said "G.I Hole" people either laughed or turned pale.
I didn't like it one bit. We entered the cafeteria that fed 150,000 recruit
meals a day, and I immediately knew it was either dishes or potatoes.
Unfortunately it was neither. It was the G.I Hole.

We walked past the egg scramblers, and the potato peelers.
Then we walked past the dragon tamers (the guys that operated
the dish washing machines). Four giant stainless steel monsters
steaming the holy fuck out of utensil, plate, and tray a-like.
I'd never seen anything like it, but still we walked on.
That's when I saw the entrance to the G.I Hole.
Two giant swinging rubber bottomed behemoths.
Steam and screams fizzled out the sides of the doors as we approached.
I distinctly thought I heard what sounded like a squall on the other side
toppling sailors from the decks of their crafts.

The doors swung open with a mighty whoosh of water,
steam, and what felt like guts, but proved later to be Sloppy Joe mix.
Four men emerged, one on a stretcher,
and the other straggling behind the three
He looked at me with jaundiced eyes that bade me beware,
I paused with the inclination of a child trying to figure out
where in the fuck I'd wandered off to. I heard a man yelling and pointing,
he said "I'm the Captain of the G.I. Hole, welcome, grab a hat and write
your name on it" Then he laughed the laugh of madness.

It was a rainforest, a Goddamn monsoon, which was the irony of the
paper hat, because the hat in fact became a spit wad in five minutes.
A few more guys came in, and we all fell into formation -- rank was
decided merely and only by who had been there the longest,
and captain and chief were picked by the leaving captain and chief,
and these two ran the hole for the duration of their week upon being
selected, it could be for one hour, or 7 days
depending on what point of their week stay they were at upon being chosen.
I was picked early to be captain, but not before I was initiated into the G.I Hole.

See, the 'Hole' was where all the left over food went,
and it was where the dishes first stopped before proceeding
on to the dishwasher. It wasn't an actual hole, more like
an improvised shower, and waste disposal area. The food had
to be cleared off of the keep-ables (dishes, etc.) placed into
these huge stainless steel basins on wheels called "torpedoes",
and once those were filled with mixed meals they went out to the trash.
Then we hose washed the keep-ables that then went out to
the dragons to be washed and steamed upon large racks.
This process went on perpetually since the opening of the
base almost a hundred years prior. When I thought of the
sheer number of young men that had been through here,
I had to let out my own mad laugh. This was fucking beautiful.
Now I see the gears to this universe.

Initiation was like any other imagined frat hazing that plague
all universities in America. It consisted of one position on a
higher food chain rubbing the face of the underlings in shit
that are vying for a higher position themselves,
these underlings then in fact, repeat the process
when they reach the higher chain.

We had to fetch a butter knife from the bottom of a torpedo
filled to the brim with preferably old, starting to turn,
food with only our mouths. Then we had to protect our peckers
and hats from the blasts of a high-pressure hose from twenty
feet back. All of this was done, well; all work in the G.I Hole was
done in 8 to 10 inches of water, 14 hour work days. We all had to do it.
Just some of us had to actually work. The conditions were hell.
No one made it the 7 days without either pneumonia or trench foot.
I learned to tie bags around my socks, and then put on my boots.
After that, the G.I Hole evolved. It was weird, pure Darwinism with
just a touch of Lord of the Flies. I obviously invented a few new
hazing techniques myself in my tenure.

I lost many men that week to the hazing and climate,
we were all just boys playing in the waters of hell, and it
was the last truly childish moment I shared with my ego before
I moved on with my life to bigger obstacles with more energetic
and responsible ties. The G.I Hole was the last tree house,
the last rock fight, the last attempted train derailment in a
blue collar upbringing that kept me emotionally limited to sugar
binges at Seven-Eleven, and Def-Leopard pins and parachute pants.
I smoked a cigarette with the sunset outside at the back exist of the
G.I Hole. I had just appointed my replacement. I was now bound for
graduation and then Philadelphia. I had made it through another hole.



Chapter XVII. American Crack(s)


The brig loomed over the naval base in Philly like the
House Of Usher. All of us party animals in the Navy
feared the brig above all else. It was the stories; isn't
it always... Well I'm hear to tell you that the brig in Philly isn't
haunted by ghosts, or demons (since it's the oldest prison in America
dating back to the civil war). It's haunted by power hungry
fascists and sick fucks out to press their mediocre-laymen-shit
-opinions upon every detainee in the joint. People often ask me
what military prison was like, I usually tell them to "give it a try".
Often, people say, "Criminals should be punished, and shouldn't have
any freedoms in prison or entertainment, or privileges.
Yes, that way we can keep the animals tame.

The military obviously didn't go as long-term as I'd imagined,
and thank god for that. Being in the navy during the first gulf
war was akin to directing a bad Cheeto's commercial. I mean,
it was all some ridiculous attempt by Uncle Sam at low
budget theater shenanigans. Nothing was happening,
nothing was being accomplished, it was a staged farce.
I don't care how you slice it. A model to test Middle East
reactions to our presence there. Whether we were merely there
to "help" the Kuwaiti's, or franchise more banks and McDonalds.
I'm sure it has nothing to do with the worlds largest supply of
fear, hate, god, and oil.

Nobody knew where Kuwait was then, and you haven't heard shit
about them since. Don't you find that odd? Even now, in this war,
where's Kuwait? Exactly. I'll tell you where, right in the middle of it all.
Kuwait is our forwarding point to go to any other location in the Middle East.
Not that we couldn't fly into Iraq from Turkey, or any other fucking place
we wanted. We do whatever we want, whenever, "reap it Mcready".
It's just more economical to have bases to strike out from that are
next to the country you wish to conquer than to rely on iffy allies,
and or just your navy, and marines.

Philly was off the hook. Cheese steaks, hot chicks, drugs, and booze
What else does a man need to pass the time? Except for maybe directions.
The base was ancient, huge, and reminded me of an Earnest Hemmingway
novel – Cold, grey, full of buzzing squids, soldiers, and soused officers.
It even had a boat graveyard. Now imagine rows of boats as far as they
eyes could see dry docked and decommissioned, and I don't mean fishing boats.
I'm talking cruisers and battleships, surreal, row after row of steel and rusting
guns made useless by wars, time, and technology.

Two weeks before I graduated from welding school, the bottom dropped
out. A part time friend of mine decided that he was going to tell on himself
for smoking pot in order to get out of the military. Now, I have no problem
with that, to each his own, but when he was asked "who" he had smoked the
pot with, he told on everyone. Granted, that's not enough to send
anyone to military prison, but it's certainly enough to get the ball rolling.
And we all know what happens to a snowball as it rolls down a mountain.
It grows out of control dangerously fast. I was that snowball.

To top it off they put the bastard in our barracks while we all awaited our
discharges. Of course he was getting out on a general discharge, we were
getting OTH'd (other than honorably discharged). I couldn't stand breathing
the same air as the snitch, so I began to get antsy, and when I thought about
all the time and hard work I had put into qualifying for SEALS that our little
snitch had eradicated in one sentence? I started to get angry, and like
David Banner "you wouldn't like me when I'm angry".

And that was the least of it. The guy in charge of our quarters was a total
douche bag, a real fucking degenerate. He made a habit out of waking us
up every Friday and Saturday night bragging about how loaded and laid
he was while we were starving for some sleep from our 16 hour work details.
I was so tired I could sleep sitting up, and most free time was spent hiding in
some ridiculous place just to catch a few winks. Which ultimately proved to be
another notch on my belt of evil when I got caught sleeping on watch one night.
That cost me dearly because before I knew it they had me in the boat
graveyard doing fire watch every night for a week. Fire watch is the
equivalent of counting blades of grass in the dark with a flashlight in BFE.

After that I was certifiable, and the rest is just a bad dream, but to sum it
all up my best friend and I (Tommy German) decided that when the drunken
asshole came to wake us up and whoop and holler on Friday night we were
going to do something about it. What that amounted to was waiting for him
to fall asleep, sneaking into his room, and stealing his car keys from his
pants pocket while he was still wearing them. That went off without a hitch,
but the next part of the plan was pure improv.

We packed our shit and stole his car before the sun came up, and I'll be damned
if thay stool pigeon didn't wake up and voice his disapproval with our
escape plan. Well, we accommodated him with the perfect answer when
he asked, "Where the fuck are you guys going?" We took a pair of skivvies,
crammed them into his shit hole mouth, wrapped a couple of socks around his
head to hold it all in place, and locked him in the wardrobe closet. Not the
best chess move, but what do you expect from a couple of overly trained and
pissed off 18 year olds that haven't slept in weeks?

We laughed all the way to New York, and then we drove silently through a
miserable ice storm towards Detroit to pick up a friend of mine, and some
good hash. We had just bet the pot, and it was only a matter of time
before the house came to collect.


Chapter XVIII: Mother Fucker


Hedwig, is my mother, unfortunately. Don't get me wrong, but
she hardly deserves the credit of bearing me or any of her kids,
because she's like the octa-mom. A self proclaimed, yet quick to deny
narcissus that will use breeding or any means necessary to draw attention
to herself, and as soon as the attention is gone, so is the child.
But kids disappear everyday, Haley, scaly, Beatle Bailey, it only
matters if the media says so. In most child abuse cases, 90% of
them, you hear nothing, and see even less, and that's in America,
imagine how the poor abroad feel in third world countries.
Kids are the given targets for the overall fact that it defies
common sense to rape, murder, or enslave a child, but since when
has common sense mattered to human beings?

For well known reasons boys want their moms, and girls, their dads.
Psychologically the opposite sex is more important in the hard-wiring
of a child to assist them in life with their choice making -- when it comes to
who they marry, and who they surround themselves with. Take for instance
serial killers, and serial rapists -- 90% of them are males with tragic relationships
with their mothers. Abuse, abandonment, and separation anxieties and disorders
haunt their every early move in life foreshadowing the immanent disasters yet to
come unless there is divine intervention. Girls that have no father figures or
abusive incestual relationships fair no better. They end up becoming whores,
and terrible mothers depending on the levels of abuse encountered, and thus
the cycle continues. A ridiculous chain of events put in motion by abused children
procreating their curse upon their seed indefinitely, until something intervenes.

I spent the better part of my life trying to earn the love of my parents
that were incapable of loving themselves let alone me. An ancient tragedy
so close to my face that I could not make it out from the end of my nose.
My mother had made it quite clear to those around (me included) that she
wanted no part of my life with not only her actions, but her words. However
being a walking breathing contradiction herself would bring her around occasionally
like a comet to scorch my world's forests and evaporate its waters. I, of course,
hoped each time would finally be the one where she became the mother
I always wanted and needed in my life, would allow her to do so with open arms
until the day came where there was nothing left to destroy, except what was
indestructible. The love I have for my children.

Instead of becoming a Charlie Manson, or a Ted Bundy due to the exhaustive
efforts of my parents to ruin me with their conscious and subconscious choices in life.
I at some point (probably as an infant or toddler) made a totally selfless decision
at a completely spiritual level to end the cycle and become a hero.
It takes no effort to destroy, but much will power to learn how not to.
Often one can do it with no effort (destroy the innocent)
by merely turning their backs on a challenge, or labor of responsibility.
I believe that only hard work and love bears the eternal fruit
of balance and respect on a universal level that cannot be destroyed
by evil on any level.

It is everywhere around you all it once, therefore it cannot be imprisoned,
contained, or extinguished, and it eventually rights all wrongs.
It is too pure and light to be smothered by corruption and wickedness.
It is "to be or not to be" a provider of light, wisdom, and love.
A teacher of what is already known, with out having to pay to learn it,
throughout the universe. A bringer of light and a smoter of dragons.
All human beings deserve love, light, and a chance to grow and create equally
without being unjustly manipulated by the unnamable wickedness of Saturnian
(saurian) orders.

My mother and I have only spent a few occasions together during my 34 years
in this current reincarnation, but on those occasions time was irrelevant and
many atrocious and wicked things transpired, and none were of my creation.
My mother and I have laid together, and created and destroyed life in her womb
by her choice and manuevering. I only did as I was told until the deed itself
woke me from the slumber of giants that haunts all men currently in this matrix
She has a way of making me do whatever she wants, and she has always wanted
too much. It's hard for me to describe what has come and gone between us
since she is a fog that clouds all clarity and senses when encountered, a witch.
The words she whispers always have a way of seeming correct even when better
judgment screams "no" over and over again through your entire being.
Even Isis and Hecate would be safer to lie with than Hedwig of Babylon.
To this day she is out there somewhere lying, cheating, stealing, ruining
love, light and innocence in some unfounded hope that revenge will serve
her purposeful yet pointless crusade to be believed in.

A ghost of herself turned subterranean worm this monster and breeder of Grendals
has gobbled the hearts of all that she has brought forth into existence. It was only
by sheer luck and love that I survived to tell this story. My mother is the scarlet woman saddled upon the beast that is apocalypse, and I am the first of her children.
She has tried in every way possible to turn me into a monster. She has attempted
in every manner to entice me into murdering her with her despicable choices and
actions, but I will not raise a finger to acknowledge such madness and degenerative
horrors. It simply is not in my nature or in the cards.

To this day she habits the shadows spinning webs of deceit, and actually believing
her poison as the blood of righteousness when all can see that nothing grows in its wake but death, evil, and confusion. Men have come and gone from her gates like
moths to the combustion of radiance. I too have smashed into and through her fires
except by some miracle I understood what no-one else has seemed to gather.
She is only a child, treacherously brain washed by the evil men that brought her
to this plane of existence to use her as nothing more than a host and
receptacle of monsters and demons. A kept beast starved of love and light
made to push eggs and milk from a thousand cracks and tits to the undeserving
and miserable beasts of the field. And for this I am sorry for her, and willing to
speak to those that will hear me on her behalf. Forgive her, because she has drank
her own poison too often, and will now only believe in that which holds no order.

There is sense of what is right and what is wrong in all of us.
And all of us must monitor and keep this device operating to its fullest ability,
and away from those that have evil in their hearts who would reprogram this device
to serve their wills and ill intentions.
There is a way for each of us to repair what has been undone if we choose.
You simply must love what you have created, and not turn your back upon
it, and if it turns its back on you? Become the very air that it needs to breath
in order to be -- become the light that it needs to see,
and it will not be able to ignore you any longer -- forcing it to flee or fight.
And in that battle what is right will prevail, and what is wrong will be forced
to correct itself or cease to exist.

I have learned so much in my life. I am her to say that none of it was by the
choice of my creators, but brought about of my own choosing and accident,
so however and whenever I meet my physical end do not allow these scoundrels to
take any credit, but call them on it. I believe Mary Shelly described it best in her
book Frankenstein. You should stand by what you create, or be prepared to face
the monstrous consequences when you refuse to. There is no running away in life.
There is no safe haven for the wicked. The universe keeps a very interesting score
count on all of the activities within its growth cycles, and no little thing goes unnoticed nor big event. All will be judged by the scales in the end, and all must anney up and sacrifice to maintain and right the balance in the end. So don't wait to be judged, become the judge, and do what is right, and make no excuses for your actions, nor make light of anyone's plight or laborers, if you expect to be appreciated, assisted, and respected at some point for yours.

I am not ashamed of myself or my mother, and father. Nor do I miss what was never
meant to be. I have lived my life in the light, and I have been blessed with a wonderful wife, and three incredible children to balance off the injustices that were pointlessly breached upon my shoulders. Every day is a blessing. I now understand that my parent's actions in life have kept them from enjoying such gifts like I have had the opportunity to enjoy. Making everything once again balanced in my mind.
And when they are in their end days they will wonder why they have no love, friends,
or company, but the darkness and silence of their own misfortunes and greed staring
back at them from the place where we must all go to balance or deeds and choices in life.

Yes, I am a motherfucker, and she is a son fucker, and my father is a thief and a
coward that protected no-one but himself through all of this playing out. However,
I am not afraid to hold high above my head what I am for the world to see,
because it is all that I have, and what I am made out of. It's my story,
and I'm sticking to it. Better it happen to me than those I love and have chosen to
protect and teach, because I am strong enough to take it and use it for better
things to come than why it was used against me, and this is how people should deal
with such nightmares, use them to fight back, and teach those that are genuinely
interested in knowing how to transform their nightmares into peaceful nights of rest.