My valuable wall

I was happy to get home, but not happy to be home. Home can hardly be described as home when it only brings me back to my usual life. If that life happens to be amazingly fresh and bright, then home is certainly home. If home brings to your mind thousands of memories of torture (both physical and mental, both from yourself and others) and living in your own cold waste, then home is more like a medium-security apartment building that smells like urine. I checked the mail to find I had many unpaid bills and some new codes for my favorite games including Battleship as well as some other codes that would become useful in real time future endeavors. I put on a fresh pair of socks and ate some old browned hamburger directly out of the bag. Fresh. Through the din of the beef crunch, I heard a knock at the door. I abruptly paused my demolition of the fried noodles I was also eating and felt the crumbs roll off my lower lip. I walked to the screen door not realizing I was bearing the sad reality that my body has become (covered only slightly with a thin Canada maple leaf shirt). It was the agent, I could see through the torn screen. Apparently the plan would be implemented immediately and I was being called upon to go to work now. I put my hand up as if to say, “time-out.” I needed a short nap and a wipe down. He was unyielding, and that didn’t surprise me with respect to the rules of the program. I waited for the extension cord, but realized that that was my own responsibility… only fair. He then proceeded to punch a hole in my screen near the apex (at a wasp he later explains) which caused me to become uneasy and nauseated. The destruction was proceeded by a deep laughter, a brief entrance, and a tight hug to me. It was my brother after all. I hadn't seen him in over a week, and had even went so far as to take him for dead. I had received a letter only days earlier explaining of his demise. It was a postcard actually, with a grand city view and several people enjoying the sunshine. These scenes were all too often the case, and always gave me a sense of security. This time I was self-aware and I wasn’t even on intense stimulants although I enjoy the occasional upper for speed thought. It was as if it never happened now. As I patted him on the back during the embrace, I noticed on the wall calender that he was scheduled to be here today to pick up mother's things. He lacked personal characteristics. “Wow, look at these figures! Are these mother's?” I knew where this was going, and I didn't want to admit that I had just purchased them for my own enjoyment. Behind closed doors I had assembled an entire world of monsters, mercenaries, and fortresses filled with my favorite pin-jointed action figures. “Yeah, they're mom's alright- take them with the rest of the shit.” The rest of the shit being an old respiratory apparatus, some quilts, and the silver urn. They were being taken to a pawn shop to be sold, then other items would be purchased and given to mom. We would split up the profits after the purchases were made. Little economic systems such as this have proven to be unsuccessful, but irresistible. “Well, on my way I guess.” That was a quick visit, but then again, my brother and I don’t communicate well much anymore. We’ve both been working the system for years now but to no avail. With that said, it doesn’t take much to realize that we don’t have much to talk about besides new recipes and old friends.

My eyes were in pain from the light of day and the blood that had discolored them a while back. I nodded my head and recalled for a brief moment when times were different. I had picked up an extension cord to punish myself in these situations, inadvertently unplugging the clock. I clenched the warm orange cord, but chose not to use it now. I recalled a time when my brother and I were a traveling ministry team back in the time when that was popular and spiritually profitable activity. We would set up mind shot at a vocational school just east of here, waiting to prey (and pray) on the less desirable; to rope them in with false hope and empty promises. We got paid for that, and that was divine. The team was composed of my brother and I and one of the Virelic boys, I think it was Lonnie. On this particularly memorable occasion, one Tuesday afternoon in April, we decided to make some new, better promises of salvation. I remember it well, I woke up around 7 a.m. that day just to take some new notes on how to better persuade. As I sat and ate my oatmeal in the morning sun I imagined a future time when all our manipulative endeavors would be assisted by mind tricks and advanced weaponry used for blackmail. I stared off into the five-foot high gravel pile that had accumulated next door as our neighbor was putting in a new gravel yard at the time. I imagined that we were all just rocks in the gravel pile, waiting for our turn to be implemented as a placeholder in the back yard by the tire swing. I was thinking, right up until Lonnie and my brother began to fight over the last bit of seasoned breakfast potato dish from last week, that I could utilize this idea in some way to get more people to believe, after all, that was our mission (I shrugged). I quickly forgot about this and focused on the task at hand. Actually, the task written on my hand: wash fresh fruit, pack lunches, pack wounds (if applicable), scrape sofa, rack pool balls to keep them busy at gaming area. I remember sighing heavily as an overwhelming feeling of despair came over me. “Time for the valium,” I said to my friends. Later in the afternoon, with the tasks complete, and my slightly new idea still available, we made our trek to the tech school. Lonnie breathed heavily on the entire journey, whistled through his nose unintentionally, and annoyed me endlessly with lines from old Clint Eastwood movies. Bravado always constituted a large portion of Lonnie's fat frame. I answered his questions patiently and told him that unless he concentrated on the signing up of new marching soldiers (of the army of the lord), the main office wasn't going to send our $20 checks... with candy inside the envelope. Actually I just meant that the envelope seal tasted sweet. It was a good enough tactic to get us to our destination. We set up shop just across the street from the school, posing as three guys selling hash, lemonade, playing catch with a football, or working on an old car, depending on the day and what sort of population we were targeting. When someone approached, Lonnie would “tie the noose” (i.e. make the sales pitch: pretend he's injured, ask for a spark-plug wrench, etc.), my brother would “sentence the subject” (explain the path to salvation quickly and with no detail), and I would “open the trapdoor” (put a stamp on each subject's hand and speak tongues while touching their head). Once that was done, we make them sign a card to okay their being on TV, and then we'd be finished. If anyone caught on, we'd run or beg for pity, whichever method was most applicable. As you can see, lots of variables made this occupationally hazardous, and quite complex for three idiots like us. I remembered our teamwork and appreciated it none the less, we were good. But now, for the first time, I wondered if my brother and that Virelic boy were still into manipulation and desperately aggressive persuasive tactics. Only now, they were just working for a different operation, not the Jesus of that company out in California, certainly not Heavy Metal Jesus, probably not Hell's Jesus, but maybe the Jesus of this town- the awe-striking machine of this resource rich area. Stupid human resources: soft, dull, and rock-like, at least in the context of my previous idea. Uncle told me that we can either divide up the rocks using thousands of different categorical descriptives, or look at the massive heap and say they all serve the same purpose. He added some other comments and I remember taking notes on my tape recorder.