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.”
