The Crazy between Us(Crashing Hell's Party[part 2])

The guards had provided Gilbert with a fresh white t-shirt and a pair of flimsy flip-flops after escorting him to an interrogation room. They left him sitting alone in the room for what seemed like almost half an hour - could’ve been an hour and a half as far as Gilbert knew. No longer handcuffed, he sat in a somewhat comfortable office chair with his elbow propped on top of a brown table. 

    This has to be a mistake, he thought, has to be. I’m a patient man. This will blow over.  I’m a forgiving man when it comes to cops making mistakes. No lawsuit from my ass. Fuck my front door. 

    Gilbert was not the kind of guy to be arrested. He hardly drove around town drunk - sometimes, yes, but that’s beside the point. He would mostly spend his days off work at his apartment, reading, writing, or cruising the internet, researching, jerking off to porn, watching dumb shit on youtube, nothing unusual. And when Blair was living with him, she’d sometimes drag his lazy ass out of the apartment for a hike, a drive to the city, out to a restaurant, a party at one of their friend’s house. A rather mundane way of life in his eyes. Even more so now that Blair was gone, out of his life somewhere, most likely with another man. 

    The door opened and two men wearing FBI jackets entered the interrogation room. One was holding a folder, and before sitting in one of the vacant office chairs, slapped it atop of the desk. It was thick and heavy enough that when it hit the table Gilbert jolted in his chair, his shoulders shifting. Though the expressions of both FBI agents were stern and stoic, Gilbert could see a hint of satisfaction in the fright the loud sound caused him to have. 

    “I’m Agent Smith,” said the Agent seated in the chair. “This man standing behind me is Agent Anderson.” 

    Agent Anderson leaned against the wall, stared down at Gilbert, and held his hands together before him in a stance that said the spider holds it’s prey in the web. 

    “Agent Smith, and Agent Anderson,” Gilbert said, a bit bewildered at this chance encounter of meeting Federal Agents with those names. 

    “Correct,” Agent Smith said. “Good memory.” 

    “Those your real names, or aliases? Because…you know.” 

    “Yes,” Agent Smith said, “we get ‘The Matrix’ reference a lot. Funny, isn’t it?” 

    “Yeah, comical,” Gilbert replied. 

    “Well, this is no joke, Gilbert Vergo. People have died. Murdered by someone you knew.” 

    Gilbert put his hands up, and said, “Wait. Stop. This has got to be a case of mistaken identity, man. I don’t get why I’m here, why a SWAT team busted down my door and arrested me. Look, I’m a very forgiving person, so it’s not a humongous deal to me that I got arrested for someone else’s crime and ending up on television, shirtless and handcuffed for a shitload of people to see. All I ask, if it is possible, is compensation for the busted down front door to my apartment.” 

    “So you’re a forgiving person, huh?” Agent Smith inquired, reaching in his jacket pocket, and pulling out his cellphone.

    “Yes,” Gilbert said, “especially when it comes to people of the law. I have a lot of respect for you guys. You’re the protection to our freedoms, and all that.” 

    “Does this sound forgiving to you, Agent Anderson?” Agent Smith said, pressing his thumb on the cellphone, and holding it up. 

    This came from the phone’s speakers: “You send me a check. And it better not bounce, or I’m bringing your ass to fucking Judge mothafucking Judy, MOTHAFUCKA! Fucka’ you. FUCKA’ you!” 

    Gilbert’s mouth dropped. 

    “That doesn’t sound like a man who forgives to me,” Agent Anderson said. 

    “I concur.” 

    Gilbert shook his head for a second, getting his bearings together, trying to comprehend what the fuck was happening. 

    “You recorded that shit?” Gilbert said. “Isn’t that illegal?” 

    “Not in this era of history,” Agent Smith said. “We only started recording and monitoring your phone calls early this morning. Why’d you leave Ms. Bloom over sixty messages?”

    “We lived together. She dumped me without giving me a reason. I came home from work one day, and she was gone, all her things too. You can call her to confirm it.” 

    “We have tried contacting Ms. Bloom,” Agent Anderson informed Gilbert. 

    “And? How is Blair? What she say?” Gilbert sparked with a new light. The anticipation overpowered how he felt of the predicament he found himself in. 

    Agent Anderson looked down at the ground.

    “She hasn’t answered our calls either,” Agent Anderson admitted.

    “But you can find her, right?” Gilbert asked, almost desperately. “GPS, man.”

    “We know she’s within the city limits,” Agent Anderson said, looking Gilbert right in the eyes again. 

    “Hey, kid,” Agent Smith said, “enough about Blair Bloom. We need to focus on your connection with Paulo Henders.” 

    “Who?” Gilbert asked, perplexed. The name was unfamiliar to him. 

    “The man behind the mass shooting in Shaker Krista. Did you hear about the incident that happened last night on Halloween?” 

    “I saw something about a shooting on the news channel, but I didn’t pay it much mind. Didn’t it happen in Southern California?” 

    “Correct,” Agent Smith said. 

    “But this is Oregon, man.”

    “Well, obviously,” Agent Smith said. “You are in custody because of your connection with Paulo Henders, the shooter.” 

    “I don’t know a Paulo Henders,” Gilbert said. “I know like two people living in California. Both are girls, and as far as I know, they don’t live a double life. I don’t know this Paulo.” 

    “On youtube he goes by another name: Ultra-tripleX.” Agent Smith opened the folder on the table, took out a sheet of paper, and pushed it toward Gilbert. The paper had an image of a man staring in the camera. He looked like he was in the middle of saying something. Behind him was a blank wall, painted in a khaki color. 

    “Yeah, I know Ultra-tripleX,” Gilbert said, looking at the image. 

    “Did you send him this e-mail?” Agent Smith placed another sheet of paper on top of the picture. 

    Gilbert picked up the copy of the e-mail, skimmed over it. 

    “Yes, I sent him this e-mail. He replied too.”

    Agent Smith held up another sheet of paper, and said, “We know.” 

    “Of course, you’re the government,” Gilbert said. 

    “Why did you e-mail Paulo Henders?” Agent Smith asked. 

    “You guys already read the e-mails. It’s all there.” 

    “Tell us, so there won’t be any misinterpretation from our side.” 

    “Okay, Agent Smith. I saw a few of his youtube videos. I admired his art performance. The way he spoke his poetry in a kind of Stream of Conscious voice. I’m a writer you see, and I had this idea for a screenplay that had a character like the one he performed as. A type of misanthropic, iconoclast type of figure. I e-mailed him for his insight. And he replied, saying he appreciated my compliments about his videos.” A realization comes to Gilbert. “And you know what, he did say his first name was Paulo, but didn’t mention his last name. It was like a month ago I had this exchange with him.”

    “In your viewing of his youtube videos, Mr. Vergo, did you see any indication he’d commit the mass shooting at the fraternity in Shaker Krista?” Agent Smith asked. 

    “He was playing a character. A whining, bitching narcissist, spouting how much he disliked American society. You know, he’s not the only one on youtube that plays a character.” 

    “You know there was only one person subscribed to his channel?”

    “No, but I’m guessing it was me being that I’m here in an interrogation room.” 

    “Not only were you the only one subscribed to his channel, Mr. Vergo, but the only person to watch his videos. Why didn’t you call the authorities to warn of the ticking time bomb that was Ultra-tripleX, a.k.a: Paulo Henders?” 

    Putting his hands up and shaking them, Gilbert said, “Whoa! Whoa! How the fuck was I suppose to know he’d kill people? He never said he was going to. Plus he never brandished guns in any of the videos. This has got to be a joke. Am I on some reality prank show?” Gilbert looked up at the security camera filming the scene. “Hardy fuckin’ har, guys. The jokes over.” 

    “That’s enough,” Agent Smith said. “Stand up, Mr. Vergo, put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest for being an accessory to the murder of the people at Zion Fraternity.” 

    Agent Anderson walked up to Gilbert, nudged his shoulder.

    “Come on, get up,” he said. 

    “No fucking way, man,” Gilbert said. “This is too unreal to be true. How can Federal Agents be named Anderson and Smith anyway? What are the chances?”

    “Get the fuck up, or I’ll taser your ass,” Agent Anderson commanded. He made a gesture to reach for a taser. 

    Gilbert stood right up. 

    “Okay, man,” he said. “Chill, chill. I’m not a violent person.”

    As Anderson cuffed Gilbert’s hands behind his back, Smith recited the Miranda rights. 

    “Do you understand these rights I’ve just read to you?” Agent Smith asked. 

    “I don’t understand anything right now,” Gilbert said. “I’ll just shut up until I see a lawyer.” 

    

    

Ultra-tripleX Vlog# 4: Omne Initium 

“Hello there, everyone. Ultra-tripleX here, and thank you for watching and listening. Though none of my videos so far have any views doesn’t mean I’m going to cease uploading new ones. I’d like to think - and I know I’m not the only one who believes this - that nearly every beginning goes unnoticed, especially in this day in age. Just because the flow of information is by far the most gargantuan in humanity’s history doesn’t mean the commencement of the best of things are known about immediately. I mean, look at what I have to compete with on youtube, all these prank shows - most of which are ridiculous - all these new wave of critics with no actual publications in the world outside of youtube, these political types spouting their opinions as if they’ll inflict any kind of influence whatsoever. And all these fools make a living at it with the Adsense, making pennies with every click of the viewer’s mouse. Andy Warhol once said everyone will have their fifteen minutes of fame. He must have built his own time machine out of soup cans or something because it’s becoming true. (shrugs shoulders, lifts hands into frame) Hey, maybe I’ll end up on TV for some reason and have my own fifteen. I’ll enjoy the cocaine in the greenroom. Never had that shit before, but I won’t say no to Conan O’brien. Anyway, I’ll get back to myself, to my moment, my beginning. I must admit that the beginning is the most comfortable, a place where I can be most sane, true, honest, and not speak lies. (a moment of silence) The other night I went on a date with a girl I was introduced to by a coworker of mine. (chuckles, then belly laughs) Oh, shit, I took her to an Opera, and goddamn did she hate it. She ended up falling asleep, and snored so loud the uppity types gave me the dirtiest looks. I woke her up of course. And being the kind of rude bitch she was, she didn’t apologize. Afterwards she dragged me to a club where we downed some shots, then dry humped on the dance floor. I tried to enjoy myself, but the act felt soulless and without passion. I get nothing if those two characteristics are absent. She later scored some weed before we left, and I drove her home She was at least polite enough to invite me into her place, but I don’t smoke grass, nor do I fuck skanks. My again wasted by a talking Zombie. (rubs hands over his face) Why do I do such things to myself? Being with that thing that night killed my braincells. (impersonates a female) ‘Like, oh my God, what she did was like, you know, so…MEAN! Like, you know?’ (back in his normal self) No, I don’t know, you stuffed animal. You cannot complete an actual thought with that Jello of a brain you made with weed, coke, sugar, and Red Dye number four. What to do next, viewers, is to get myself out to the world. Explore. And I’ll bring you reports on what I found in the environment that is civilization. See you later.”

Not even my dreams are this strange, Gilbert thought to himself as a cop placed his finger tips on the paper, smudging the ink imprint of his finger prints. When the cop rolled and pressed down each of his fingers, a tingle went up his spine to the back of his head. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. The most vivid, trippy dream he ever had. 

    I think I’m in a fucking coma, or something, he thought, Maybe I swallowed a bottle of pills, and as I lay unconscious, slowly dying, this is going on in my head. Yes, that’s it. As I go into the light, God punishes me by having experience this horrendous and horrible event that I’m at the center of. There really was no shooting. No one died. And I’m not really about to go to jail.

    “Look straight at the camera,” a cop commanded. “Don’t smile, asshole.”

    The camera takes Gilbert’s picture. An image he’s certain will be on television with in the hour. 

    “Now, turn to your left.” 

    Gilbert’s profile was taken.

    He could hear the words going to be spoken by the news anchors and pundits once his picture, along with the image of him without a shirt and handcuffed outside his apartment, was released. 

    He could hear the news anchor saying something like: “Here’s the man authorities have taken into custody in Eugene, Oregon for his apparent connection to the mass shooting committed at the college town Shaker Krista outside San Luis Obispo, California. His name is Gilbert Vergo. Police have not released any more information on the exact reason for his arrest.” 

    A pundit would say: “A man was arrested in Eugene, Oregon in connection to the shooting at Shaker Krista. And I must say, people, the man defines militant if I ever did see it. Just look at that tattoo. ‘I Heart Blair.’ Is that a reference to The Exorcist? Was this horrific tragedy done because of some Satanic ritual of some kind?”

    Gilbert thought he was over-exaggerating a little bit. He felt certain he would be released by the end of the day. If not, eventually. There was no way they could put the deaths of those college kids on him. How? Because he watched some dude on youtube? He thought back to those videos Ultra-tipleX uploaded to youtube. There were only six of them if he remembered correctly, but he was not positive, it had been a while since he last watched Ultra-tripleX’s channel. 

    He sat in a holding cell, wearing an orange prison uniform. The correctional officer said a judge would see him before the end of the day for his bail hearing. 

    Four hours later Gilbert found himself in a courtroom behind a partition made of prison bars that reminded him of a birdcage. Behind him were two SWAT members, geared up, holding their submachine guns in the ready. Gilbert had the suspicion the safeties being turned off. 

    “Mr. Vergo,” the Judge began to say, “you are charged with being an accessory to the murder of thirteen people, along with fifteen counts of being an accessory to attempted murder.” The Judge looked around the courtroom. “Is there anyone here representing Mr. Vergo’s defense?” 

    A lady dressed in a purple blazer who represented the persecution spoke.

    “He as of yet has not been appointed representation, your honor,” she said. 

    “Mr. Vergo, in time you will be appointed one,” the Judge said. 

    “Okay,” Gilbert said. 

    The Judge shot Gilbert an extremely disapproving look, that made clear Gilbert was not to speak unless spoken to. Feeling ashamed for speaking, he looked down at his handcuffs. It felt like a heavy weight dropped on top of his head, almost crushing his skull. 

    “What does the persecution recommend for bail?” the Judge asked. 

    “Due to the severity of the crimes, and the evidence provided by Federal Authorities, we ask bail be set for five hundred thousand dollars,” the lady said, raising her brow as if what she recommended was the fairest, most justifiable thing ever uttered by a law abiding citizen. 

    Gilbert’s head shot up, his mouth dropped. Shocked is not the right word to described the look on his face. Horrified seems more appropriate a description. 

    “Oh-kay,” the Judge said, over-emphasizing the O. “Bail shall be set at the amount of five hundred thousand.”

    “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Gilbert burst out. “Five hundred thousand! Is everyone in the courtroom on drugs but me?”

    The Judge looked at Gilbert with a grin. 

    “I now set bail for one million dollars,” he said, pointing his finger in Gilbert’s direction. “With the addition of twenty five days in custody for contempt of court.”

    “HOLY! FUCKIN’! SHIT!” Gilbert said with his mouth open as much as humanly possible at each word spoken. “You can’t be serious. A million fucking dollars. I work at a book store, man. How is this fucking possible? I didn’t even really know the fucker. It happened over a thousand miles away from where we are at right now, in another fucking state. Please, your honor, is this even humane?”

    “Due to your outburst, I hold you in contempt for fifty days. And you will cease to cuss in my courtroom.”

    “I can’t pay the ridiculous cost of my bail anyway. What’s the use of holding me in contempt? Whatever the fuck ever, man. This is a fucking Circus, and everyone but me is a freak.” 

    “I hold you in contempt for seventy-five days, Mr. Vergo. Officers, take this wretched man out of my court.”

    The two SWAT members grabbed Gilbert by his arms and dragged him out the door into the hallway, escorting him to the holding cell. 

    “A million fucking dollars,” Gilbert said, beginning to tear up. “This nightmare is the worst I’ve ever had. Please wake up, Gilbert.”

    “Keep it up, boy,” said one of the SWAT men. “You’re just making it worse for yourself every time you open your mouth.”

    “The world is fucked,” Gilbert said, now weeping like a child who’s parents ate their Halloween candy. 

    “The world is fine,” the SWAT man said, chuckling, “but you’re fucked.”

The Crazy between Us(Crashing Hell's Party[part 1])

                       "When you're born in this world, you're given a ticket to the freak show.
                         If you're born in America, you get a front row seat."
                                                                                          - George Carlin

 

For a college kid in California - or any other college campus in the 21st century -  Halloween being on a Saturday was a dream come true. The college town of Shaker Krista was bursting with the festivities of loud, booming music, and the laughing and hollering of drunk, drugged up college students. There was immense joy so palpable in the atmosphere as kids walked the streets, making their way to a house party - by invitation, or simply crashing it. But for Ultra-tripleX, the immense joy he felt wasn’t from the colorful celebrations coming from the students wandering around in their costumes, or the beats of the music coming from all the house parties, it was the fact that it was open season. As he drove down all the streets, looking for the biggest house party in the Shaker Krista, Ultra-tripleX stroked his HK MP5-KN machine gun laying on the passenger seat. 

    “To all you intellectual peasants, get ready to put those smiles upside down to frowns,” he said aloud to himself. “The party is about to come down.” 

    He parked his car after picking the house party to attend - and ultimately end - a few blocks away. Dressed in hunting Camo hoodie and pants, and wearing a red Devil mask, Ultra-tripleX exited his car without bothering to lock it. He walked on the sidewalk toward the big house party, casually holding his machine gun. Under his hoodie sweatshirt he wore a vest that held six other fully loaded magazines.

    “Hey, kid,” a man said from the street. 

    Ultra-tripleX stopped and turned to see four sheriffs that patrol the college town every night there are a shitload of house parties. All four shined their flashlights on Ultra-tripleX, looking him up and down. 

    “What are you suppose to be?” one of them asked. 

    “One of Joker’s henchmen,” Ultra-tripleX replied.

    “That gun looks good. I mean, totally realistic.” The Sherif shined his light on Ultra-tripleX’s mask. He asked, “Where’d you get it?”

    “A guy I know who does 3D printing,” Ultra-tripleX said, putting his free-hand up to block the light in his eyes. “Cost me almost eight hundred bucks.” 

    “Whoa, shit,” the sheriff uttered. 

    Ultra-tripleX put his down, and said, “He actually gave me a discount.”

    “You headed for the Frat party?” the Sheriff asked. 

    “Yes, the one just down there,” Ultra-tripleX said, pointing a finger toward the house. “Zion Fraternity.”

    “Get there quick, or someone might think that’s an actual gun.” The Sheriffs then began to walk away. 

    “Thanks for looking out, gentlemen,” Ultra-tripleX said with a wave of his hand. 

    As Ultra-tripleX drew near the house party a small crowd of almost a dozen stupids were making their way to the open front door. 

    “Nice outfit,” a blond girl dressed in a slutty pink fairy costume said to Ultra-tripleX. “What are you suppose to be?” 

    “A member of Satan’s militia,” he answered. 

    “Cool,” the slut pink fairy said. 

    Entering the house with the small crowd, Ultra-tripleX was met with strobe lights, a disco ball hanging from the ceiling glinting red light, and a crowded dance floor to the entrance’s immediate left. 

    “Welcome to Hell’s Party,” a Clown hollered from the stairs. He was smoking weed from a glass pipe, puff puff passing with a Werewolf and a scruffy looking Dracula. 

    Ultra-tripleX found the DJ and tapped him on the shoulder. The DJ turned around, smiling with good nature. He was dressed as a pirate, eye patch and stuffed bird on his shoulder. 

    “Can I make a request?” Ultra-tripleX asked.

    “Sure, man,” the Pirate DJ said, excited. “What you got?”

    “It’s an odd choice, but I think the crowd will love it. An oldie from the fifties. You ever see the movie ‘Mean Streets?’”

    The Pirate DJ clapped his hands once, and said, “Fuck yeah! I know exactly what you want everyone to hear. They’ll love it. What’s your name, man?” 

    “Say it’s from Mr. Militia,” Ultra-tripleX said. 

    He went around Pirate DJ’s table to the dance floor as the song that had been playing faded out, and patiently waited for his request to pound out of the speakers. He laid his gun on the DJ’s table, then took off his Camo hoodie. 

    “All right!” Pirate DJ announced into a mic, his voice bursting out of the speakers. “Is everyone having a good time?” 

    Everyone in the house answered either with a “YEAH!” or wooed. 

    “Zion fraternity thanks you for attending,” continued Pirate DJ. “What I’m about to play next is a request from a satisfied guest. From the man standing right in front of the DJ booth, Mr. Militia.” 

    Ultra-tripleX spun his Camo hoodie over his head, then threw it into the crowd. The kids cheered their approval. He picked up his machine gun from Pirate DJ’s table, raised his sleeveless arms to rowel up the crowd. 

    A girl yelled, “I’d love to see what’s under that vest! God, he’s SO hot!”

    First one to die, Ultra-tripleX thought.

    “This song is one our grandparents partied to in their time,” Pirate DJ said. “Now, grab hold of a loved one, or stranger you will fuck later, and dance to ‘Be my Baby.’”

    The infamous drum beat began, everyone laughed and danced with joy. Ultra-tripleX shifted his shoulders to the music, then began being sexually suggestive with his machine gun - propping the butt on his crotch, and humping the air, finger on trigger. A beautiful brunette girl, dressed in a generic Witch costume was dancing her way to him, beckoning with her hands for him to come closer. With all the desire in his heart, he hoped this was the one who wanted to see him naked. He aimed the machine gun right at her head. As he had promised himself, the slut was the first to die. 

                                                         *      *     *    *

Leaning his boney ass against the counter in the kitchen, Gilbert ate the bowl of Trix cereal. The Trix tasted good, but how he felt was the opposite. She had dumped him for some reason, and he stood in the kitchen, eating, trying to figure out what that reason was. He had called her "bitch" a few times, and a few other objectionable terms, but mostly in good fun - he never thought she took it seriously. Their relationship was great, as far as he knew: seemingly they were very compatible; they had cool conversations that would last hours and never tended to be boring; they hardly argued, and when they did, Gilbert would always be the one to apologize and make it up to her. He would hug and kiss her, saying things like: “I’m sorry, honey, my sweetie,” or “You’re the best, the greatest there ever was,” blah blah blah. 

    Then one day Gilbert noticed her possessions were slowly dwindling day by day. It started with the juicer. 

    “Where’s the juicer, Blair?” he had asked her. 

    “Got rid of it,” she replied. 

    And when he asked why, she refused to give an answer, then went out. 

    “Where are you going tonight?” he had asked her on another day. 

    And with a deadpan expression, she replied, “Out. Don’t worry about it.” 

    When he came home from work, on a Friday, two weeks before, she and all her belongings were gone. It was as if she never existed in his life. He called her cellphone, but she wouldn’t answer it. 

    At that moment as Gilbert ate the Trix cereal, he didn’t want answers to his questions of why she left anymore. He took out his cellphone from his pocket and called her, hopefully leaving his last message. This must’ve been maybe the fifty-eighth message he was going to leave on her cellphone. 

    “Hey, Blair, it’s you know fucking who,” he said. “Just calling to let you fucking know that you still owe me your share for last months rent, because, you know, you fucking lived here. Remember? I’m not a busted dildo you can fucking toss in the fucking garbage after your whore ass crushed it with your rotten, vagina spider pussy. You send me a check. And it better not bounce, or I’m bringing your ass to fucking Judge mothafucking Judy, MOTHAFUCKA! Fucka’ you. FUCKA’ you!” 

    Taking a moment to breathe steadily, calm his ass down, Gilbert stopped talking. He held the phone as if to throw it across the room, but he realized he didn’t have enough money for a new one - plus he was on contract. He brought the phone back down beside his head. 

    “Anyways, I miss you,” he said softly, “I still love you, and I’d love it if you’d call me back.”

    He hung up, putting the phone back in his pocket. 

    “Fucking Irish-Mexican bitch,” he said aloud to himself. “She’s now made me a bitter prick. I’m probably the bad guy in this situation. Calm down, Gilbert. Don’t call her again. I’ll text her about the rent money. That’ll be it. I give up.” 

    He got his phone back out of his pocket and sent this simple text: RENT MONEY, PLEASE. 

    He then left the kitchen and sat on the couch in front of the TV, turned it on. He flipped through the channels, mindlessly staring as he browsed each station. Before deciding to see what one of the news networks were talking about that morning, he began guessing what subject they were covering at that particular moment. He was getting good at it. 

    “Let’s see,” Gilbert began saying aloud, “Bombing, celebrity overdose, or shooting.” 

    With his three guesses, he went to one of the liberal national news channels. 

    “Thirteen dead in the college town Shaker Krista,” said a news anchor on the television. “With fifteen critically wounded.”

    “Bang, bang,” Gilbert muttered. “Humans are getting so predictable.” 

    He read the bottom crawl to see if a bombing happened somewhere, or if there was a celebrity overdose, maybe a celebrity DUI. He continued eating his cereal, not really giving much attention to the story on the news, it seemed like boring entertainment to him. He was the kind of person that had no attachment to events he himself had no physical, or emotional connection with. To him it was rather rude for complete strangers to have empathy toward others whom have been victims of a horrific tragedy. Most people did not share this way of thinking, Gilbert knew. He rarely shared his thoughts with others on such matters. Blair was one of them. 

    On the news network, anchors and reporters from the scene said the shooter, who had yet to be identified was killed in a fire fight with the cops. The shooting had occurred during a Halloween Party at a Fraternity on - 

    Gilbert turned the TV off. He was not interested. He would spend the rest of his day off from work relaxing, maybe read, or get some writing done. He then decided he would look at porn, then when he was done with himself, go on youtube and watch funny and stupid shit people do to go viral. 

    He finished the cereal, drank the sugary milk, then stood up to go to the kitchen. Before he got there he heard loud knocking on his front door, more like someone on the outside was punching it. 

    “POLICE!” a man yelled from outside. “POLICE! We have a search warrant!” 

    Gilbert had no time to register what was going on before his front door got rammed open by a SWAT member. Then four other SWAT men entered, guns aiming in all directions. One of them had their assault rifle aimed right at Gilbert’s head, his mouth agape, a frozen expression. 

    “Hands up,” the SWAT man commanded. 

    Gilbert raised his hands over his head, still holding the empty bowl. The spoon fell to the floor. 

    “Drop the bowl!” 

    Gilbert dropped it. 

    “It’s empty,” Gilbert blurted. 

    “What’s that?” the SWAT man asked. 

    “The bowl. It’s empty.”

    “On your knees! Get on your stomach! Hands above your head!” 

    Gilbert followed all his commands until he was back on his feet, pressed face-first against the wall. 

    “Any weapons on you?” asked the SWAT man. 

    “No,” Gilbert answered. 

    “Clear! All clear!” other SWAT members yelled from the hallway. 

    “Anything in your pockets that can stab or poke me?” asked the frisking SWAT man. 

    “No.”

    “Who are you? 

    “Shouldn’t you know. You’re the one -.”

    “DON’T get smart with me, boy!” the SWAT man yelled in Gilbert’s ear. “You think this is a joke? People died.”

    Gilbert, wincing at the pain in his ear, said, “I think you got the wrong house, man. I understand, these things happen. I just want the money for my door. You see, my girlfriend just left me, and I’m -.”

    “I don’t give a FUCK about your goddamn love life! Put this heartbroken sap in the car.”

    “What’s going on, man?” Gilbert asked the SWAT member who escorted him to the squad car parked outside his apartment complex. 

    “Don’t talk to me, asshole.” Was the answer. 

    Before getting into the backseat, Gilbert noticed a local television news crew down the street. A reporter held up her mic rehearsing what she was going to say. The cameraman noticed Gilbert being put in the back of a police cruiser and pointed the camera in his direction. Gilbert could tell he was zooming right on him - shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants. He felt so embarrassed. 

    Whatever the reason for this strange and crazy scene Gilbert found himself involved in, the first time people will see him on TV is without a shirt, and the tattoo on his chest. It was over his sternum, and consisted of the letter “I” over a red heart shape, and under the heart was the name “Blair.” 

    “Fuck,” Gilbert said aloud, staring at the news crew as the squad car drove off. 

Ultra-tripleX Vlog #1: Vigilo Confido  

“Hello out there to anyone watching and listening. You may call me Ultra-tripleX. I have a real name, I assure you, but I will never disclose that information to anyone. If I do, it will be someone of my choosing, or(chuckles) someone will find out anyway. As you can see, I don’t cover my face. My real name is not important. What is important is what I have to say about the world, and the societies that live in it. I think of myself as a psychological philosopher with a hint of spiritual enlightenment. No, I’m not here to tell you of how our mind and body are all one thing connected to the entire universe, or how we all are connected to each other, and we’re all God, blah blah blah. Fuck that shit. I don’t feel connected to anybody but those I interact with, and even then we’re not literally, nor figuratively connected in anyway. We individual just talk to each other, and that’s about it. We talk. Either to pleasure ourselves or keep silence at bay, because, let’s be honest, silence can be evil. And you know what else can be evil. Yes, well-informed ones, evil actions. The actions that infringe on an individual’s personal freedoms. That’s what (exhales heavily, puts hand on head) Look at me, listen to me. I’m just blathering and yammering on. You must be bored, huh? I got kind of bored as I was talking oh so philosophically. I do that sometimes. That’s why I feel most people lose interest in me. They listen, then they move onto someone because they’d rather do shots, snort coke in the bathroom, bitch about the government, and fornicate in the backseat of a car. Those things are pleasurable, but so…so fucking plain, and BORING. Seems like most people want to spend most of their free time high on some chemical all the time, completely numbing the pain of surviving the wilderness that is the ‘civilized’ society that I currently occupy. Oh, shit, look at me again, blathering away. I’m sorry. But I have to admit, all that I say to you will never, ever, be omitted. I’m here to be honest, truthful, and faithful with my thoughts about the human environment which is held together by the most important thing. Communication. (nods for a moment in silence) That’s so very important. Better for us to communicate with no restraint than silent for eternity. Why am I sounding like a beatnik fresh off the benzedrine? Which I’ll never touch, by the way. Well, it’s because that’s how I like to talk. You see, I went to college to be a professor in literature, and in doing so, read so many damn books that my brain is so full of words, ideas, ideals, constructs of all the ways of living life, all the ways of controlling and governing societies, how to love them and hate them at the same time, that I don’t know any other way to express myself other than youtube. And the fact I dropped out of college. I was this close(holds thumb and forefinger up to camera, centimeters away from each other) from graduating. That fucking close. But I said, ‘Fuck it,’ like the Dude said and now I’m a garbage man. It ain’t that bad of a job. Just got to drive a truck around. The best thing is I don’t have to deal with people. Not that that’s a bad thing, but it makes ones job easier not having to deal with so many people. Imagine if I had to teach a room full of lazy-ass students. Anyways, thanks for watching and listening. I’m Ultra-tripleX, and this is my first youtube Vlog. See you later.”

SOC #29: Talking Cellmates (or the Maelstrom of Dignity)

"Morning wind dissolves the morning frost on the green blades on the front lawns of houses where the living, both men and women, awake before the sun rolls over the illuminating horizon, now clearly viewed by the unfocused eyes of those whom cannot sleep due to the fact they cannot succeed in finding shelter for their tender flesh that never gains the hardening required to survive the harsh elements of the nature formed by the rotations. The wind touches upon the barks of trees, up through the branches to soon dying leaves, which will soon dry up, soaked in by the trunk, safe and secured by the rough, coarse textured shell that is earned by lifetimes of adaptations measured only by the lives surrounding it whom both ignore, and decide the fate of the tree that wind touches. The branches motion, waving at nothing in particular, but merely remaining by its will, which is unconscious stability, they creak as if moaning the pains of the everyday lives of those waking up in the houses they stand outside of-"
"What in God's name are you fucking blathering about now?"
"Why are you committed to interrupting me at my most lucrative moments of productivity?"
"I'm here to help you, man. We are here for each other."
"Then, would you please convey your thoughts after I am finished with my recitations. I think it would work better that way."
"I disagree."
"Why is that? Do explain yourself, please."
"A lot of what you're saying is exerting energy, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes. Mind, body, and certainly spirit."
"I just think what you're saying a lot of the time is not only wasting your time, but also your energy. What are you tackling, my friend? What is the subject you have just commenced?"
"Death and Taxes."
"What about it?"
"Are you being comical with me?"
"No."
"It's the subject all great writers allure to in articulating the certainty of all human beings. What it means to be human."
"Death I understand, but not all humans on planet Earth pay Taxes."
"Why do you ruin it for me by thinking so damn hard?"
"Hey, you're the one thinking so damn hard; you make life more elegant than it actually is, judging by what I just heard from the opening of that...magnum opus, or whatever you call that shit. Most people are simpletons, man. They want things clear, easy to understand, and to the point. 'Death and Taxes.' Okay, sounds simple enough for the laymen, but talking about the wind blowing outside a motherfucker's house ain't gonna peak the interest of your everyday blue-collar, clinging to something to reassure them that life is a struggle - the light not being at the end of a lifelong corridor, but a harsh climb to an unknown sky where one doesn't know if anything's possible, and they're not alone in - "
"What, pray tell, are you yammering about?"
"I was just - you know- motherfucker, don't get off the subject. Where you get 'Death and Taxes' from anyway?"
"Ronald Reagan."
"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, of all the stumbling, fumbling failures that hold positions of leadership, you got inspiration from a man that was at the beginning of Alzheimers when he was barely past his second term. He probably said that 'Death and Taxes' shit when he thought he was talking to a priest, or a puppet."
"Very fitting."
"Yeah, no shit."
"Why do you curse so much, my confiding colleague?"
"To get through the world when you occupy both the so called stratosphere of intellectual pricks, or the subterranean with the bitching, moaning, equally annoying proletariats, you got to be elegantly coherent with what you say."
"You're confusing me."
"That's the spirit."

SOC #28: Reminisce a Halloween

I'm only thinking of the evening that I'm about to speak of because on that night there was a point I grabbed a pair of nice, big tits - fake tits, that is. Then as the night's party was ending, I grabbed those same damn bazoombas, and this time they were real. She immediately forgave me. There was a dead Doctor that was too old to be a party animal, later I found him throwing up in a toilet. I met a Dracula that was 66 years old and he told me he was too stoned to remember watching the movie "Walk the Line." This was when I should have realized people never, honestly grow into adults - not even when they run for President. But, of course, I forgot because I ate a magic brownie, smoked a joint, took a big hit from a rainbow colored pipe, and passed a bottle of Vodka in a small circle of people, doing shots and chasing it with some soda. I knew someone in the circle, the only one I knew, but I don't recall right now whom it was. All I remember was she was dressed as a Witch. The rest of the people in costumes I don't remember; I didn't know any of them. I kept asking myself, "What the hell am I doing here, in this little house, with these strange people?" I knew then this was what to expect in the years to come. I was a fresh 21 year old, new to the scene of getting wasted. I never did such things when I was in my teenage years. Sometimes I think I should have to brush away such tempting tendencies, to focus better on my own life, not delay my destiny. I thought, "What if destiny sees not time as factual, but a concept made up by the fanatical parenting of the human race?" Obviously, weed made my mind ponder things of the variations of existential ideals. A woman yelled, "Who barfed in the toilet? We have a septic tank for fuck sake!" The vampire pointed an accusing finger in my direction, proclaiming, "It was the young one. The child! Only he has the stomach for it." I denied it, saying, "I only peed in the toilet. There was no vomit that I saw." Actually I did see the vomit, and I did see where it came from. The dead Doctor was gone anyway. The night passed quick which drugs tend to make the senses do, the fake time goes along like a sock to the face, or dreaming a Universe but only sleeping for five minutes. The party eventually died down to friendly, boring conversations, and I decided to go out for a cigarette. I was still the only one in costume. I don't remember what the fuck I was, but I do know I was still in costume while everyone else was in their plain clothes. Except for the Witch. She later took me home on her broom, smoking a joint on the way. I said, "You shouldn't be doing that while you fly." The Witch replied, "Fuck off, child, or I'll eat you." I said, "Damn. So fussy." The Witch said, passing me the joint, "She liked it when you grabbed her real tits. Good for you." I said, "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I thought they were still fake." The Witch informed, "Actually, they are fake." I said, as we flew higher, getting a clearer view of the moon, "Typical."

SOC #25: Black Tequila

I was having a conversation with one of my current co-workers the other night and this memory popped into my head from my Santa Barbara days. It was a Sunday, my roommate and I went to a barbecue at his cousin's apartment. As soon as we walked into the place, and speaking in Spanish, he introduced me to his cousin's family. His aunt shook my hand and immediately handed me a beer from a nearly empty 24 pack box. On the kitchen counter behind her there were two more full boxes. My roommate said, "She said if you want another, don't be shy." I noticed his aunt had a black tear tattoo on her left cheek, indication of a rough childhood, but these days I could tell she was in high spirits and enjoying life the best she could. We made our way to the porch where my roommate began grilling a steak for the both of us. As he was heating up the meat we both smoked a joint, having a good time, the beer tasting better the more I toked. The family inside were chattering in Spanish and having a good time. Not even 20 minutes of sitting, smoking, barbecuing, and drinking on the porch did we begin to hear women crying from inside the apartment. I asked, "The fuck they crying about?" My roommate simply replied, "Memories." I said, "Good ones, I hope." My roommate said, "All memories are good because they are in the past." I said, "Good point. Never thought of it that way. Most of the time for me the past is a thorn in my brain, a persistent migraine that not even drugs can numb." My roommate suggested, "You should just change the way you think by changing the way you do things. You seem to be stuck in a routine. Maybe you should change things up." I said, "It was worse when I was back home. Pissing in the bathroom even had a fucking schedule. Same exact time every fucking day." My roommate inquired, "How about shitting?" I chuckled and was about to say something when an empty bottle of expensive tequila shot out of the open sliding-glass door, shattering to pieces against the porch fence. A woman inside wailed from the kitchen, spouting words in Spanish faster than a machine gun as she cried. From what I could discern from my extremely limited Spanish vocabulary, the woman was saying things like: "Why?!" and "Why, God, you Bastard?!" There was the sound of the kitchen table being pushed around while the other women tried to hold her still and calm her down. The struggling made it's way outside to the porch. It was my roommates aunt trying to push other female members of her family off her. The ladies tried to pull her back inside when my roommates aunt suddenly unveiled a switchblade from her jacket pocket, waving it at her siblings, then putting it up to her throat. I asked aloud, "Is this really happening?" I turned my attention to my roommate standing at the grill, flipping the steak, his back to the drama. Without looking at me, he said, "Memories. Just memories. Someone died, someone else was raped, blah, blah." By the time I looked back over to the ladies they had somehow got the knife away from his aunt, and took her back inside. I said to my roommate, "Did that just happen, man?" My roommate replied, "She gets like that when she drinks tequila." I wondered, "How many shots of tequila does it take to put a knife to your own throat? 'Tis the question." My roommate said, "She wasn't doing shots. They all were drinking full cups of it." Astonished, I said, "Fucking memories."

The Orange Bridge

            "I stared into the Abyss, and like Nietzsche said, it stared back. Not only did it

             simply look upon my form, it spoke to me."

                                                             - Elmore Patric, Words of Wisdom 

    SMASH! Shatter. 

    The sound of Elmore's aluminum baseball-bat breaking his car window reverberated throughout the three-story parking garage. If there was anyone around, they would have panicked, and called the Transit Rail police. Luckily for Elmore the place was empty at that moment while he continued to walk around his car and pound dents into the doors, hood, and the trunk. Why was he doing this? It was the end of the line for him. The rock bottom of his depression had crushed his soul. His plan was to take the Transit to the city, walk to that fucking infamous orange bridge, and jump off. So far that year there had been nine suicides on that bridge. He wanted to be number ten.
    It had been two weeks since his girlfriend Claire dumped him after admitting she had cheated on him with an older man. Elmore forgave her, and offered her a second chance because he loved her too much, but she preferred the lifestyle of a money-grubbing slut. He had given her his soul for the past seven years, and she tossed it aside like a dirty rag.
    "Cunt!" Elmore yelled as he delivered one last swing with the bat into the passenger window, the glass shattering into the car. He then dropped the aluminum bat onto the pavement before walking to the stairwell, made his way to the platform, and waited for the train.
    Sitting on a bench, nothing was on his mind but that damn bridge. He thought about how windy it was going to be, if a strong gust of wind could sweep in, somehow cushioning his fall to prevent the smack on the surface of the water from killing him. He hoped not. On a documentary he once watched about the suicides on the orange bridge, a young man, about Elmore's age had survived the fall by changing his mind in mid-fall, adjusting his body so he'd land on his feet. His back broke of course, preventing him from swimming, but as the young man was about to sink a Sea Lion swam around his limp body, keeping him afloat. Though it was the Sea Lion that kept him from dying, the young man said it was God that saved him.
    Fucking dumb bastard, Elmore had thought, a fucking living thing saves your life, and you give credit to something that's not REAL!
    Elmore thought to himself on the Transit platform that if he somehow was still alive after the fall, and a Sea Lion came to his aide, he'd break it's fucking neck with his bare hands.
    The train arrived at the station.
    One year later when Elmore tried to think about that day of his failed attempt at suicide, he realized he couldn't remember the train ride to the Market Street station, walking on the sidewalk, or lighting a cigarette. But what he does remember is when he was about to finish the cigarette he saw the sign outside Tony's Italian Restaurant, decided to have one last meal before his death, and get drunk to feel good about it.
    A sexy blond hostess wearing a white shirt and black slacks stood behind a glossy wood podium, giving a bright, friendly smile to Elmore's stoic face.
    "Good evening, sir," she greeted. "Welcome to Tony's. How many in your party?"
    "Just me," Elmore said, holding up one finger, pointing at himself. "Is it too early for dinner?"
    "We've just started serving it, sir. Follow me, please." The hostess held the menu as she led Elmore through the restaurant to a booth with high partitions.
    Elmore sat down, immediately feeling relief from the near total privacy the spot permitted.
    "Wow," Elmore said. "This is really nice." He almost bared a smile.
    "We strive to make our customers feel the best," the hostess said, placing the menu on the table before Elmore. "Your waiter will be with you shortly."
    Looking through the menu, Elmore scoffed at the pretentiousness of the restaurant industry and their one page menus. He searched for a plate that had the simplest wording, and found it. It made more sense to him than someone giving the middle-finger. He then looked at the wine selection and searched for the most expensive bottle. Being it was his last hours amongst the living, he was going all out
    "Hello, sir," a girl said. "My name is Lilian. I'll be your waitress."
    "I'll start with your most expensive bottle of wine," Elmore said, still looking at the wine menu. "The ce-cedad- the one that costs a hundred-thirty."
    "Is your name Elmore?" the waitress asked. "Elmore Patric?"
    "Yes, that's me," Elmore said, still browsing the list of wines. "Maybe I'll have the Coppola. I heard it's shit, but at least I can pronounce it."
    "I'm Lilian Palmer," the waitress said. "I use to be your neighbor. I lived around the corner. Well, I just recently moved back home."
    Elmore finally looked up at her, and a slow breeze of recognition came over him; it had been years since he had seen her. She was all grown up, with long dirty-blond hair in a pony-tail, thin, fit, and tall. And a nice rack to boot. She wore a black shirt and black slacks.
    "Whoa," Elmore uttered. "The last time I saw you you had a mohawk. You've really changed."
    "Yeah, one of those teenage phases that fade once you make it passed the threshold into your twenties. I see you haven't changed much. You still got the same hair style."
    "I'm not one for trends, I guess," Elmore said, running a hand through his hair. "So why'd you move back home? You finish college?"
    "I never went to college. I moved in with a guy, and-" Lilian squinted her eyes, a little too personal for her to explain to a near stranger. She simply said, "It's a long story."
    "You're right," Elmore said, putting a hand up, "none of my business. My girl just left me, and all I got to say about it-" Elmore stopped himself in a minor fit of rage, then almost under his breath, he said, "Fucking-whore-bitch."
    Lilian smiled and laughed, nodding her head.
    "Sorry about that," Elmore said. "You must understand, it's very emotional for men."
    "It's okay, Elmore. So you want the Ca' del Baio Barbaresco Valgrande bottle? Good choice."
    "Is that how you say it?" Elmore said. "Damn, I was way off. Yes. And to eat I'll have the meal on the menu that begins with the words: 'Full Belly Farm Melon.'"
    "A lot of the unsophisticated order that all the time," Lilian said, raising her brow.
    "Well, I'm no sophisticated fool. And Lilian, for your honesty, I'll overtip."
    She giggled, then said, "I'll be right back with your bottle of wine, Elmore."
    This chance meeting with Lilian Palmer set in motion a change of attitude in Elmore. It wasn't the excellent food, nor was it the inebriation of the superb wine. Much like that young man that survived the fall from the orange bridge, Elmore was going to give living a life one more shot.
    He was surprised Lilian decided to serve him when she could have asked someone else as a favor to take her place. Like most of his neighbors, the Palmer family avoided talking to him after his episode three years earlier when he suffered a mental breakdown, walking around the neighborhood with his shirt off, knocking on front doors, trying to find out who was delivering him to his destiny. The event caused neighborhood gossip in which people feared Elmore was going to shoot them, or break in their homes and rape them. The event embarrassed Elmore so much he became a drunk, which of course led his girlfriend Claire to slowly distance herself from him so she'd find an old fart with lots of money to fuck.
    Elmore couldn't keep his eyes off Lilian as he drank and ate. An overwhelming sensation of faith poured over him, like the first breath of fresh air for a man buried alive climbing out of his grave. Lilian eventually did notice him staring at her, and when their eyes met from across the restaurant she met his gaze with a smile and a flick of her brow.
    If there was a God, Elmore thought, it would not be a thing, but a moment that would save a life.
    Lilian made her way to Elmore's booth with the check folder.
    The moment arrived. Elmore did not care for the consequence, good or bad.
    "Will there be anything else, Elmore? Dessert maybe?" Lilian asked, placing the check folder on the table.
    "No dessert," Elmore replied. "But I would like your phone number."
    Lilian grinned, leaned forward, and opened the check folder. Elmore looked down and saw a phone number written down on a separate sheet of receipt paper.
    "It's right there," she said softly. "I get off at nine-thirty. Will you still be around?"
    Elmore nodded, Yes.
    "Text me your number. There's a bar on Broadway called: Score Sports Bar. We can have some drinks, catch up. Sound cool, Elmore?"
    "Yes, very cool," Elmore said, picking up the check folder.
    Elmore Patric never made it to the orange bridge. He had totally forgotten about it until a year later when two Detectives knocked on the front door.
 
    

SOC #24: Night at the decrepit Hangover Hotel

"Abandon sobriety those who enter," was written on the wall in purple spray paint as we entered the stairwell from outside the abandoned hotel. With me was Josh and three of his friends: Ken, Mark, and Anthony. I held a flashlight and an eighteen pack of Lagunitas. Ken had two pizzas. Mark and Anthony held six packs of IPA's in each arm. I howled, "Any vacancies!" My voice echoed up the stairwell and all about the hopefully empty hotel. There was no answer. Josh said there might be others with their own booze. He said, "Cool, we got the place to ourselves. Fuckin' better be that way the rest of the night." I asked, "Which floor you guys want to go to?" Mark replied, "Tip top, brotha. The Presidential suite." Ken said, "There ain't no fucking Presidential suite in this shit hotel. We're not in New York, man. The place is only three stories high." I settled it, "Third floor then." We made our way to the third floor. Some of the doors to the rooms were open, and the ones that were closed weren't locked. The place had been abandoned ten years earlier due to a financial downfall, so the condition of the place wasn't as decrepit as most people thought. It was just the smell of the fucking place that was nasty. It smelled of piss, shit, and hopefully not poisonous mold, all intermingling with each other in the dusty atmosphere. I found a room that was the least smelly, due to the fact it's window had been smashed by previous party goers. There was still furniture in the room. The only things missing was a television, a mattress for the bed, and lamps. I looked about the floor of the room with the flashlight and saw syringes, condom wrappers, used condoms, and some beer cans and beer bottles. I warned, "Watch out for needles and condoms, comrades." Ken said, "Shit. Thanks, man. I almost sat down." I shined the flashlight on the dilapidating carpets for them as all three of them kicked away the trash, making themselves a clearing for the fresh batch of beers. Luckily there were usable chairs still in the hotel for us to sit. I checked out the graffiti on the walls and found something that seemed out of place from the rest of the symbols. I said, "Hey, Josh, check it out." Opening a beer, he looked at what I shined the flashlight on. He said, "You don't usually see that in places like this. I mean, maybe a pentagram, but not Jesus on the cross." I said, "We picked the right room. Like seeing a shooting star explode in space." Anthony said, "What the fuck you blathering about, fool?" I turned to him, gesturing to the drawing of Jesus, saying, "It's a sign, Anthony. Go to church tomorrow. All of us must go to church, and confess our sins." Anthony gave me the finger, and said, "I got no fucking sins." I yelled in a faux-sermon, "Don't make sign of false idols in the presence of our Lord and Savior." I stopped the preaching tone. "Now give me a beer, please." Anthony tossed me a Lagunitas. I said, "Thank you, sir." I opened it, then held it up to Christ. "Here's to you. Thanks for dying." Later on, I think when I was on my sixth beer, we started a game of throwing Ken's pocket knife at the image of Jesus on the cross. If we weren't able to make it stick in the wall, or if we missed Jesus completely, we had to chug the rest of our beer. At one point while I was downing my beer, Anthony smacked me in the nuts, and to his disappointment, I still finished it without any spillage. He said, "Damn, fool." I said, "I can't feel my body, you idiot." We all laughed in unison. Later, in our drunken haze, we explored the hotel. As we made our way down each hall, looking into each room, Josh told us a tale of why the hotel was really closed down. He said, "It wasn't because the owner went bankrupt or some shit like that, there was a murder here. A woman was tortured and killed by a Witch in a room on the second floor. This floor." Ken said, "A fucking Witch?! It's the twenty-first century, man. There aren't witches these days, just bitches." Josh said, "No, I'm serious. The bitch practiced Satanic witchcraft. She got a prostitute from craigslist, one who plays on both teams, and performed something called 'The Blue Sacrifice.'" Mark said, "Yeah, I heard about it too. And I know which room it happened in. It's the one at the end of the hall, on the left. The Witch got caught because she got carried away and sloppy. A pool of blood formed at the bottom of the door. A guy was leaving his room and saw it, then called the cops." I said, "Bullshit." We arrived at the room Mark said the murder occurred. The door was closed. I shined the flashlight on the foot of the door, and there was a dark stain in the old carpet. Ken said, "Whoa. You were right, Josh." Anthony said, "Fuck this," and ran down the hallway. Mark told me, "Open it. Lets see if they left the body inside." I turned the door knob, but before I even pushed open the door, it was pulled from my grasp from the other side. A woman with long black hair, and wearing a blue dress jumped at us from the dark room, screaming, and reaching out for us. We took the fuck off down the hallway. I screamed, "The fuck, fuck, FUUUUCK!" I woke up. Sorry to disappoint, but that didn't happen. HA! HA! We simply got horribly drunk, and passed out. My head hurt as if it were being crushed, and a used condom was stuck on my cheek as I sat up on the floor. The sun shined through the broken window right on my face. I said aloud, "This is the last time I hang out with kids under twenty-one. Who's fucking idea was it to party at an abandoned hotel? I mean, what the fuck?" Josh, in his sleep, said, "Keep it down. Me sleep." He was curled up on the floor in the corner of the room. He turned over, and I saw a syringe stuck in his arm.

SOC #23: Manifestos suck.

I've only glanced over two manifestos written by criminals that have shot innocent people. The Los Angeles ex-cop who shot other cops, and that one kid who went on a rampage in Isla Vista where I once partied at 4 years ago. And dear God, how these people are boring writers. I mean, if they were willing to commit those tragedies, better leave things unsaid if they can't write worth shit. The first line of the Isla Vista shooter was, "It was on that day I took a breath of life." And that's all I could read. Toneless and as lively as a burnt puppet. I guess that is what these mass-shooters are, nothing more than mindless buffoons with nothing ahead of them in life, if there even was in the first place. People have asked me why my first novel was about such a subject matter such as I've just described. Someone years ago was afraid I'd carry out such an act as the narrator, Ronnie Filbert, did in the first chapter of the novel. Ignorant bitch. Anyway, I guess I'll tell those who want to know why I wrote it. It was the first story I imagined that was worth telling. There you go, that simple. And I'll tell you where it stemmed from. First I'll tell you that one of my favorite novels is American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. Stephen King said it was "bad fiction," but fuck him; he's a pussy for taking his novel Rage out of print. That's just my personal opinion when it comes to an author censoring his own work. The reason American Psycho is one of my favorite works of fiction is because of it's complete, total, and devout desire in honesty when it came to Patrick Bateman's narration of the murders he committed, the sex scenes, and the awkward, heavily detailed descriptions of the cloths he wore. When Ellis was interviewing real Wall Street guys during his research for the book, he realized how boring those fuckers were; all they seemed to talk about was what they bought with their money, so Ellis asked himself, "What if one of these guys was a serial killer?" And thus he created Patrick Bateman. Ellis' basis for writing the story of American Psycho was due to his disappointment of adults, how they lived, how they thought, and how the world was run and controlled by their weakness and greed. I don't think my book Rosemary and Despair comes close to American Psycho; it's not nearly as long, nor is it detailed in it's narration. I kept what Ronnie Filbert told the readers as simple and to the point as I could; I didn't want the dude to philosophize any of his ideas because he himself knew what he was doing was ultimately pointless and inane. Now I want to get into the conception of when I came up with the original story: it was when I was a sophomore in high school, I had this English teacher that no one liked because most kids in the classroom thought she was "weird." She wasn't a bad teacher, she did her job well enough, but due to her weird nature I guess, the students who didn't want to learn caused disruptions, interrupted her, and so on and so forth, to the point the vice principal called her stupid one day. "Wow," I thought. "Like the insane controlling the insane asylum." All I wanted to do was go to school, learn, then go the fuck home. It's so fucking simple. Due to this frustration, and my imagination running wild during that time, this scene popped into my head of a kid sitting quiet in the classroom while other asshole students argued with the teacher, tension building in the kid as he listened, annoyed, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip. Then, BAM! He slams his hands on his desk over and over again as if it were gunfire. Right then and there, I decided my first story was going to be about a school shooting from the point-of-view of the shooter. The original title was simply "School Shooting." It took me nearly a year to come up with a title I liked, and once I did, the story of Ronnie's High School romance with Rosemary came immediately to fruition. It might not be an excellent novel, but I'm extremely proud of what I've accomplished. People have joked around with me, asking, "Hey, man, what's the title of your manifesto again?" I reply, "It's not a manifesto, fool. Manifestos fucking suck."

SOC #22: A Psychedelic Departure and the double-fuck

No, I've never imbibed shrooms dipped in LSD, but I did watch 5 minutes of the 2015 VMA's, hosted by a half-naked Alien from the planet Arturas. Donald Trump, I've found the ultimate illegal alien. Call the Air force, FBI, CIA, la migra, and NASA, the creature stole an American's job. Oh, dear God, I thought the cocaine laced 80's ended 25 years ago. Did I go back in time? Is Reagan President? Was I abducted and taken to the planet Nephilum? How can a child star promote marijuana, then they show a retarded, uninspiring anti-tobacco commercial? I swear, every time they show a "Truth" ad, I want to cut open a swisher, add more tobacco, roll it back up, and smoke it in one breath. MTV should be put on the controlled substance list as "deathly lethal in one dose," because it's opiate effects have made me forget who I am, and what I'm doing. I can't feel my body. If this shit is what kids these days are inspired by, I'm performing my own vasectomy, due to my lack of feeling from the ultimate opiate M-fucking-T-fuck-V. My fucking God, a TALKING PIG! It's going to shoot me. Change channel, must change channel to something with substance, a work of art with heart and passion, and not a substance with the intellect and integrity of a porno flick starring meth addicts. Look, a normal looking woman playing a guitar...shit song - heard it before - love, kiss, shouldah-couldah-wouldah, ... throws guitar into crowd, kills a robot - no one notice's - the bitch looks naked under her suit-jacket, her skin made of gold. Yuck! I'm no moneyfucker. Are there people that really dry-hump gold? If Jared from Subway looked at kiddy-porn, then yes. I've heard people literally fornicate with trees. Shit! You see what MTV does to me, what it makes me ponder. WHITE SQUAD?!! The fuck is that? My I.Q. has dropped negative five thousand. dot dot lin bin bum moo mooooo. Finally changed the channel. "Maps to the Stars," directed by David Cronenberg. Good film. Now I feel better. Artist's like Cronenberg do not need a trophy on a mantle to prove how worthy they are. Okay, maybe I'm being too negative about Music Television. I change the channel back to the award show. AAAHHH! Kanye West gets a gold astronaut. Fuck, now I have to listen to him talk. He stops yelling into the mic and grabs his head, the zombie robots cheer. Has he finally stopped talking. NO! He continues. Kim Kardashian bounces her lactated balloons. Kanye West then yells his candidacy for the President of the United States. First Donald-realstate-Chump, now Kanye for-fuck-sake Give-it-a-Rest. Orwell's 1984 is alive and well, and so colorful. Double-fuck bad.