The Stagnant Monopoly of the Lords, Part 2

No religion can save me now. I never truly believed that one could, but now I’m convinced. One bad day is all it takes, and within the context of our American Dream, I do believe that. This bread is stale at best, and at worst may not contain any grain at all, and these horse tranquilizers that I currently hold under my tongue in a plastic baggy are noxious. I know I just have to make it around the interior perimeter one more time, but this is difficult given the crushed rock interface that is constantly reminding me that I have no shoes on. This exercise is psychological of course, and I’m surprising myself that I’m even able to digest and regurgitate the things that I see. The outer boundary is roughly 30 yards beyond the inner boundary of which I am familiar. The dull silvery gray of the fencing materials is multiplied by one thousand through all of the layers, the razor and barbed wire, and the corrugated knee walls which are meant to slow any escapee with some bleeding time and physical exertion. The fluorescent lights added a hint of artificiality and sterility that made everything seem like a movie studio hospital.

Can I believe that I’ve been here for 63 weeks and two days? Hell no. As time passes and I consider the 32 years I spend outside of this politically contrived hell, I start to view myself as a naïve child, blinded by my Reagan-era parents, teachers, coaches and other so-called role models. Patriotism, democracy, freedom; good, wholesome American morals, all apple-pie bullshit now! My resentment kept me alive.

Three more fence posts now. I looked across the 100 yards to where I began, across the expanse where the quick-sand tank, the electric gauntlet, the hanging post and pinion, and Cheney’s own bee and spider barrel were currently not in use. All techniques myself and the other folks here, guilty or innocent, were forced to become acquainted with. I was currently bearing marks on my left leg from the bee and spider barrel, which simply consisted of a standard cardboard box, faded and worn from use, which was filled each session with about two jars of bees and a small handful of spiders, some poisonous. There was a hole just big enough to slip your foot and then leg through, then stand for 20 minutes or so, unless of course you divulged information, information which I was unfortunate (or fortunate?) enough not to have.

Now, before you stop believing me with your American washed brain, imagine this: I, and you, know right where this compound is located. Some of you may even have helped pay for the razor wire that stares at me in a threatening manner everyday. And you should have known because old Rummy, Ashcroft, and Cheney aren’t even Yankees fans. Have you ever seen the New Yankee Stadium? Did you pay attention when they broke ground in 2006? Apparently not, because 120 feet below the stadium a 90,000 square foot, publicly demanded concrete monolithic structure exists, complete with above-ground amenities. The amenities are not utilized of course, and, in fact, all cells are accommodated with only one incandescent light-bulb, three foot long mold-covered walls, and a damp and stagnant air quality only promised by the worst of New York landlords.

They call it Dragomir Dungeon. Here I waste away daily, on your dime, at the whim of shaved head militants on a power kick. I’m here on the charge of being a speed-freak clown. A year and a half ago I was traveling with Ramchetsky Brothers circus, making your kids laugh, and here I am a year later, an experimentally preserved carbon block used to test the newest of techniques that would make any novice dungeon master cringe. Rumsfeld viewed this as something of a joke, to round up vagabond traveling performers, companionless outcasts that nobody would ever miss. It’s been said that a clown once freaked him out as a child. Indeed I am guilty of being a speed energized clown, but I always minded my own business and maintained at least some dimension of the American Way. I’m going to eat only half of this tranquilizer now and sleep on this foam rubber pad I’ve been given. I’m going to be quiet and ignore the muffled screams. I’ll forget at least half of what I’ve told you. Thank me, if nothing else, for being your own political savior, your political Jesus if you will. They inform me each day that my punishment will be your freedom reward. Hold onto your fragile ideals loosely. Hold them with that loose grip and always be willing to forge new ones.

The Stagnant Monopoly of the Lords, Part 1

“What a quaint little vehicle you have there Doctor Patterson.” ”It’s actually Captain Patterson, you should know that by now, and this vehicle – quaint? It’s an understood classic. Your name is Billy the gate keeper and you drive a shitty rusty black Chevy conversion van. See? It’s easy.” Patterson replied to the gate keeper with a flattened smirk. By most standards that would be a generous description. He drank the last three gulps of cold coffee from his environmentally unfriendly Styrofoam cup and threw it out the window.

“And I assume you have clearance for the passenger?” Asked the gate man, face growing red.

“Did I last time?” Replied Patterson. “No. And I was forced to write up a report. That’s a huge pain in the ass for me you know.”
“Well, do it again.”

“A name at least.” He pleaded as he stared as his clipboard, shaking his head.

“It’s Mrs. Estherson of course.” Patterson stared in the forward direction, towards the darkness of the towering parking structure – the entrance to Dragomir Dungeon, which lay some 150 feet below the newly built Yankee Stadium.
“Well, Mrs. Estherson, even though you have the hairstyle of a middle-aged father of three and a general lack of feminine features, I understand the nature of the government work.” Billy the gate keeper got in his last jab as he remotely opened the secondary gate off the primary ramp. The long path that awaited them was sharply winding, lit only occasionally by high-intensity white bulbs, and should be avoided unless you’re a dignitary.

“Now, Patterson, or should I call you Frank, or Frankie, or just F.P.? – since I am the primary philanthropist involved in the construction of this facility, I’m going to need first-rate breakfast service. My hands are clammy and my eyes are spastically jumping in different directions.”

“You can do whatever the hell you want Stemsruud. This is the most advanced government torture site in the US, probably the world. Built in the image of the things Dick Cheney and Don Rumsfeld hold very dearly, god bless their souls, but built with Berger Stemsruud’s fortune.“

“What?!! They told me on official letterhead that this facility would be used by me for an operational headquarters for my endeavors with the option of holding charity events for underprivileged New York orphans.” Berger threw his arms up in the partial darkness and his gum flew out of his mouth into Patterson’s lap.
Patterson responded sternly as he slowed the car down near the end of the path and brushed the gum away. “Is that a lie? I don’t think so. Once we get here I’ll show you the bee and spider box, and I think you might find some fun uses for it. What it is a box filled with bees and spiders and it can really have some neat effects on people.”

Berger sat and stared for some seconds and only spoke as he was jerked forward slightly by they stopping of the car next to a 30 foot gray concrete wall. ”Well, that could be mildly intriguing by anyone’s standards I suppose. Is there a pool in there? They told me I’d have a swimming pool. I’m also pretty sure that I had a hyperbaric chamber set up to meet my sleeping demands.”

“Ummm, yeah, I think we’d have some facilities that could work out for you. We have quite a few chambers and things like that.”

Berger sighed in what seemed like half disappointment and half relief. “I guess I can’t write it off as a total loss yet. Not until I’m certain that they won’t make my eggs runny like I like them. Not too much salt either, but plenty of fresh pepper.”

Sargeant Nickelroy and Captain Devrial Spin a Sweater

"Take this stick and smell it a bit," said Nickelroy, who was ascending in rank currently over Captain Devrial. Sitting in a leather chair on top of a limestone base made him happy and feeling in charge. Devrial sat below, Indian style, and took it to mean a lack of power. He was right. He smelled the stick. "Technical operations will commence once we finish this bowl of pasta and cutlets. Lamb cutlets." The traditional beast of peace, the lamb tasted like magical sprinkles. It was hard to chew, much like this protagonist language used against them, in honor of those in real charge. They gnawed on the meaty bones in the solitude of the national facility, facilitating complete destruction and the methods thereof. The facility, better known as Flat Grid Basin Technical Anomaly, was chosen due to its pristine natural setting and distance from any would be survivors. It was arduously painful to get there, and even more strict rules enhanced its output efforts, making the place a sort of think tank for the insane.

"Fuck this picture up Devrial," said Nickelroy, pointing to a portrait of Colonel Rodenbeck, the elite pressured lustrous maniac with a golden eye symbol worn on his coat sleeve; the symbol of longevity. Fucking the picture up was like eating a strawberry frosted pop-tart. Not a frosted strawberry pop-tart, but a strawberry frosted pop-tart, the best tasting around, but very difficult to obtain. It was career suicide on a national level, best left for experts and ghoulish outcasts. Devrial would comply after his last bite of meat.

Finality achieved, and Nickelrod cares less than ever. "Now let's listen to this Curtis Mayfield tape, and read the liner notes together. The liner notes are on small (very small) print," commanded Nickelroy. Nickelroy commanded Devrial because he could - read people magazine, destroy evidence, bake quick breads, delete visions of the future, report to the masses. Rodenbeck, then featured in Reader's Digest for his long prose entitled, "Meet me at the forest woods crossing for a good time," was a hot read, and meant a lot more than any of the top brass could comprehend. "No comprende son los sandia," they would say of the Honduran adventure.

Nickelroy got up off his chair, swept the crumbs from his beard and pants, and patted Devrial on the head. The scapegoat always gets the final image. Devrial sweeps himself up, devoid of hope, and slinks down the hill to fetch a water bucket from Mill Pond. Technical Area #39 is up and running. Believing is more than seeing. He looks over the pond, beyond the entrance road, and spins a sweater of a tale. This one may propel him to beyond the top and serve as a bragging point to his older grand children.

Jared Millbanks' Life Dynamics Program

While some people were predicting massive flooding, lawlessness, earthquakes and hellish firestorms per Harold Camping's false rapture prediction on May 21st, other people were predicting that a new life building program will rise out of the ashes. Those predicting the latter have reached a paradise of sorts. Their personal Jesus, Jared Millbanks, took it upon himself to say, "Believe me, it works," in reference to his new life building board game/life program. Just days earlier he had been scraping paint residue off of city benches, thinking to himself, "If the world doesn't end on May 21st, my plan will be activated and become a general success." And indeed it was. In fact, it went to the top of the charts. Life building and coaching, quite obviously, is going to be on the upswing, as it usually is, immediately after a false rapture. People need guidance. Frankly, they need reassurance and personal management. Jared knew this, and was there in a big way to help. Asked for his thoughts on the human condition, Jared said, "Good." And yes, for him it was good. People were off the rails of steel, riding out of control on the unkempt roads of life. Generally, their human condition was one of poorly developed convictions, depression, and loss of self-confidence; due in large part to lack of direction and scary prophecies of general world longevity and happiness. So, it follows (and Jared knew this), end-times prediction was keeping people on the straight and narrow. It was a final solution. The believers could throw their lives into a small basket of hope and wait to see the destruction cometh: the end of a job, moving away from your ex-spouse, completing your education, finishing a good sandwich - the finality keeps you focused. Leave it all behind at the day's end, like a guilty "last-time" homosexual encounter. This makes people most comfortable.

Jared Millbanks, in his soft and wise voice, says "Keep your chin up. You're doing just fine. Your kids like you. You are a valuable asset and such. You have the ability to succeed, etc." This costs $150 and you already know it's worth it. Live on my friend, live on.

Programming you on the 101: A New Force arises

It starts with the standard binary, but quickly the ante is upped to being not just software, but hardware. You probably didn't even know it was happening, and that's the typical. Now that you know, it might help, but it might hinder. Good luck to those who can feel it.

Now you're sitting there sunk into your slick vinyl couch playing Bionic Commando, leveling up at will. It won't be too long before you have your systems taken away from you, replaced by visions from the "dark side," mazes of torment, etc.

So, in summary, this is why some people really enjoy the music of "Tears for Fears." Personally, I despise that shit.

The Lingering Voices of Brotherhood

Kurt Vonnegut said that everybody writes for one specific person. This was intense insight, and it allowed me to put into words something I had felt, but not consciously recognized.

The House of Life Foreclosure Terms

Chewing on a soggy cigar and swearing under his breath, Charles Vignor III sat in a barstool in the corner of the sparsely lit Nomad’s Cove, right next to the artificial neon lights of a tabletop gambling machine. Although not playing, he stared at the machine through his orange tinted glasses and squeezed his hands into tight fists. Bernelda, his wife, stood behind him with the stern look of a real fire and brimstone priest, staring directly at his greasy, curly hair screaming out the underside of his US Navy hat.

Bernelda thought about all of the god awful things she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. After a twenty minute pause she was able to squeeze out a few words, “Charles, I wonder why I keep standing here every weekend. I wonder why you’re a good for nothing selfish man. I wonder what you’re thinking, but I don’t care to hear.” Charles pretended to be involved with the video machine, but he knew he was running short of excuses on many levels.

While never turning to actually face what he called the ugly truth, Charles replied, “Bernelda, I told you last week, and I’ll tell you again, I thought I was doing what was best for us. Can you imagine what it would be like if it was a legitimate deal? Can you imagine that?” He swung his chair around, and it truly was painful for him to do that. He was face to face with what he felt like could have been his doom. A short jab, a back-handed knuckle slap, both possibilities at this point, but god forbid she would attempt the face blasting “bowling ball” which involved the thumb in the mouth and two fingers in the eyes.

Upon eye contact, Bernelda stared and stared some more, but said and did nothing. “I’ll tell you what you need to do. It’s simple even for a man of your talent. You go reverse that goddamned deal. You go tell him that you want to take it back!” Her voice increased considerably in volume by the end of the order, so much so that Klint Harlequinn, the bar manager, perked his head up while scrubbing glasses and stopped all movement. He turned up the music on the jukebox.

Charles slid his feet off the barstool onto the stained and flattened brown carpet and began the death march to the door. He gave Klint a head nod and bit down hard on his cigar, no longer fit for smoking or chewing.
“Sixteen bananas for the price of one.” Shouted Merton. “Sixteen for one.” He stood at the back of his fruit stand van and held up a ripe set of bananas. Charles approached and interrupted the sales pitch.”
“Listen Merton, I’m going to need my money back.
“Oh, sir, a deal’s a deal you see. I have six children to feed. How would that help me?”
“How about you give me say, 40 more bananas then? I’ll give you five more dollars and these double A batteries. They’re fresh.” Charles pleaded.
“I have to make sales. If you’re not going to buy more, then step off to the side.” Merton replied as he peered down the street searching for potential customers.
“Listen pal, my wife, you know, Bernelda? She’s going to hang me up to dry like the piece of jerky that I am if I don’t get this straightened out. We need that cash”
“You mean to tell me that sixteen bananas for the price of one is not a good deal? Holy Christ. What do you want me to do, cry or something?” Merton spit on the sidewalk and rubbed it away with his shoe.
“Well, Bernelda, I know for a fact she won’t cry, but she will come out here and stomp the both of us. She knows that sixteen bananas for ten dollars is a horseshit deal. I’m a poor sucker you see, and I’ll buy melons, peanuts, flowers, bird food, candy bars, lottery tickets or whatever if the sales pitch is thrown at me. Why wouldn’t a single banana be twenty dollars? I haven’t shopped for my own food in years, and last week I fell for the same thing. Do you know what it feels like to be in a place you don’t want to be? You can’t really explain it in total, and there may not be a good reason for it, but you feel it. Well, this time it’s not like that, I know damn well I don’t want to go back into that dive over there and face whatever horror music is playing on that jukebox. She’ll rip out my heart and use it for an alarm clock.” Merton stared at the foolish Charles. He smiled. “Sorry man, like I said, a deal’s a deal.”

He turned to pick up another bunch of bananas to pitch. Dropping the other bunch, he leaned over to snatch them up. Like a flash out of the left corner of Charles’ eye, the next deal was already done. Bernelda ran full speed like a panic stricken long-horn sheep and directed her shoulder into Merton’s neck. He flew forward with awesome speed headfirst into the van bumper. Two bananas were probably responsible for saving his life as they were pureed at the forehead level. Another fell just beneath his chin, unfortunately not able to save his teeth. Charles was proud of his Mack truck wife for a moment, and that feeling was actually projected through his fear.

Bernelda filled up two torn plastic bags with all the bananas they could hold, took back her twenty dollars and they walked away slowly. They ate banana cream pie for three months and Charles enjoyed it thoroughly, although Bernelda did bottle up some resentment towards bananas that she will likely take to the grave.

The close-eyed treatment for the master minion

Last week, as was discovered, is the last possible week for entries in the spring contest. I know I've been training diligently, but have recently "fallen off the wagon," of good hope. Training was quickly replaced last week by judiciary freelancing, a task at which I neither excel at nor enjoy. I saw before me library lavender dream stacks of high concentration material. It was overwhelming to say the least, the tip of the iceberg as related to my tipping point. I lost track, most certainly, of the tasks at hand, and was buried alive in a virtual wave pattern of intense thought emitting from cracks in the walls that I had not even noticed before. It was deep. It was bittersweet. It was gravitational but with the feeling of gravel. It meant a lot, and it was harmful (as usual). The end affect: a deletion of the feeling of self-consequence; a relief of order, also known as an entropic event that leads to my eventual "dropping out, but not tuning in." Shit.

So I missed the boat, but remember, spring lasts until the second to last week in June, so there's still time for the rest of you. Turn the mechanical gearing until you hear a final click and feel less resistance. Don't go too far. We'll meet again at the corner of Halstead and some other street where we usually meet. Or maybe we'll never meet again. I guess that every 30 seconds somebody goes missing in Chicago. Hey, it's a big city.