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.
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.
posted by fiestawizard at 7:04 PM
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