SOC #32: Curmudgeon Elitest

The hordes were out this weekend and I shut down my recluse tendencies for the three days the tides of drunk sheep roved and rose around the city. Leaving my clean and lonely apartment, I wandered the streets along the sidewalks, at first mostly staring at the ground moving under my body. I so do feel apart from this world like an iPhone held by God, or some other deity to your own preference. The people flowed past me, nearly through me at times, for I was quiet, not desiring any kind of conversation if I could help it. If anyone looked at me, I did not care to notice. After nearly eight blocks I arrived at the bar I frequented every time I went out to be around people I don't know, where the only ones that recognize me is the bartender and one of the bouncers. The place was crowded tonight, making it difficult for me to get to the bar. No stool was available, nor any of the booths or tables. It was five minutes until I could order my beer. The bartender immediately recognized me, saying, "The usual, my main man?" I replied, "Yes. And throw in a shot of the best whiskey as well. The hell with it. Tonight I'll get fucked up." The bartender said joyfully, "Now that's what I like to here. Coming right up." Delivering my drinks to me, the man said, "The game is doing great for my business. Big money for the city." I jokingly said, "Maybe I'll get laid tonight." The bartender nearly yelled, "About fucking time. The nights you come here you're always alone, always sit alone, only talk to me and Charlie. The ladies are out all weekend, day and night. Go get some, sonny. You got plenty to choose from." As I took my shot, some random blond chick hollered, "Fuck yeah! PARTY! SHOTS!" I walked away from her. No way I wanted my cock in her. I made my way through the bar, drinking my beer like a bird, observing the groups of people. Attracting no one's interest, I went to the back patio and lit a cigarette. A women came up to me, asking, "Can I bum a smoke?" I gave her one. She then asked, "Got a light?" As I reached in my pocket for my Gold Zippo lighter, she said, "That's right, honey, I want all that you got." I let her light her own smoke and then walked away when she handed me back my Zippo. Standing in a new spot, smoking my cig, pondering what I could say to a girl I actually liked, a fresh twenty-one year old came up to me. She asked, "You going to the game tomorrow?" I answered, "No. I was invited, but I declined." She asked, "Who invited you?" I informed, "Someone you don't know. A person with big bucks, but no one knows about him." She asked, "How do you know the 'man with big bucks'?" She snickered with pleasure as if she found a diamond ring in the sand. I said, "He was the son of my father's friend. He's sort of like a cousin to me." She asked, "Are you a man with big bucks?" I replied, unmoved by her flirting, "I got an inheritance after both my parents died in a car accident, burning to death." I held up my thumb and forefinger close together for her to see as I continued to say, "It's about this much. I have a guy who gives me a check like that chick in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, except he doesn't steal my money, or fuck me in the ass." Her jaw dropped, a dumbfounded look on her face as I walked back into the bar, dropping my cig on the concrete before entering. Charlie, the bouncer noticed me. He said, "Hey you. How are things?" I said, "Better if I found a woman worth kissing." Charlie cackled so bad it hurt my ear. I walked to the bar where luckily there was an empty stool. I sat down soothingly. I ordered another beer. The bartender asked, "Any luck?" I shook my head before gulping my second beer. Very well buzzed I decided to talk to the girl next to me. We began to speak of the election. She wanted this guy over this lady, but considered another guy. I said, "I'll tell you the truth so you won't ever have to stress about any such matters again. After any ass-kissing motherfucker is elected, they sit in a conference room at some undisclosed location with a bunch of fat industrial, bank owning scum fucks smoking blunts laced with coke, then shown footage of the JFK assassination that isn't the Zapruder film." She drunkenly asked, "What's a Sapruder film? Is that like a new Ultra HD television, or something?" I finished my beer and walked right out of the bar. I wanted to throw up on somebody, some big tuff guy who'd beat me because he was a dumb oaf who didn't know what the word "Nobility" meant, and I could have him killed in his jail cell. But I couldn't make myself vomit.

SOC #31: Dreaming Rant

From my own personal experience, drugs don't work in your dreams. It began with me walking into a lobby of a five star hotel with a ziplock bag in one hand full of multicolored pills, shrooms, and fresh green salvia. I popped the pills like reese's pieces, and ate the shrooms and salvia with glee to no euphoric avail. No one seemed to notice what I was doing to my body, which was really nothing, because it wasn't working. I passed the front desk clerks, not bothering to check in, maybe because I already had a room. Someone stopped me before I made it to the elevators. The latino man had a brown mustache and wore a white Panama hat. He said to me, "You know, she's waiting for you." I said, "I'll find her." With no idea of where she was, the elevator door slid open and I entered. The music playing on the small speakers in the elevator was a metal, bluesy, rock and roll song I was simply unfamiliar with. The doors slid open and I exited to the hallway. I had no room key and no idea what my room number really was, but I walked down the hallway as if I knew where my destination was going to be. The drugs weren't working, my mind was clear and translucent, but the design on the carpet moved and reacted to my steps as if scared of my presence. I made no such acknowledgment of these details because the drugs weren't working. I opened my room's door without a key. "Hej hej," I greeted to an empty room. It was clean, quiet, empty, with the sun shining from the window. "What a lovely day," I said to myself, standing in the middle of the room. Then I threw the ziplock bag full of drugs onto the carpet floor, and screamed, "THERE'S GOT TO BE ANOTHER WAY!" Who appeared before me was my ex-girlfriend, dressed in a way I loved most about her: not slutty. She said, "There isn't, and wasn't much there." I said, "You know nothing but what you blindly seek." She put her hands in the pockets of her dark blue hoodie sweater, quiet for a few seconds, maybe almost two minutes, then said, "You can smash my car as much as you like." I found myself inside her boyfriend's apartment - in the kitchen - with my fists clenched so much I lost the feeling in both my arms. She was staring at me, smiling. Her boyfriend was beside her, took one look at me, then ran out the front door. It wasn't like I was going to do anything to him anyways. My ex-special-ladyfriend escorts me through the front door, down a flight of steps, to her fucking car, parked on an enormous patch of lawn. I immediately begin hitting her car with my fists, making some dents, but no damage going into the thousands. I do kick the lights to pieces. When I look up to the street I see one of the guys she fucked on the side driving by. He sees what I'm doing and shakes his head before doing a u-turn and parking his car. The trunk of his car opens and he gets out, goes to the open trunk, pulling out a sledge hammer. He walks up to me, holding up the sledgehammer in both his hands, saying, "This'll do the job." I said, "Thank you, pal." He replied, "My pleasure. You can keep it. I'm busy." He gets back in his car and drives off. Tires screeching so much smoke goes up into the clear sky. Realizing how much this was a waste of time, even if I did have the permission, I dropped the sledgehammer on the ground. It fell with a thump, but not on lawn as I expected, on desert sand. I looked up and I was in a desert grassland. The light wind on my face, moving my hair around, the smell of the clean air, the sun touching the skin on my face and neck felt refreshing more than ever. I did a complete three-sixty and found myself staring at the girl of my dreams filming a couple with a smartphone. Quietly, out of respect for her art, I lightly strolled up behind her. She said, still looking at the screen of her smartphone, "No reason to be so quiet. They're so in love, they can't hear others around them." I said, "Weird how a phone can capture something..." She interrupted, "Beautiful, wonderful, memorable blah blah. Yes, I've heard it all." It was suddenly cloudy, no blue in the sky, just gray. The couple being filmed didn't notice in the slightest. The girl of my dreams continued filming. I said, "You know what would be cool. If the sun was setting behind the clouds over there, and as it did the clouds parted, the sun shining through in the background of the lovers as they embraced. What do you think?" And it happened before she could answer. She said, still not having looked at me since I've been behind her (focused on her work; so fucking impressive), "That's amazing. Good job. So, are you going to ask me what you've come here to ask me?" I admitted, "There's no point really." She asked, "And why is that?" I said, "Because I know this is just a dream." She let go of her smartphone and let it hang in the air, still filming the happy couple. She turned around and came close to me, staring me right in the eyes, and said, "If you can't ask your question in a lucid dream, then how could you in the real world?" I replied, "Because I have too much respect for you." She playfully socked me in the shoulder, a grin on her face. I smiled, and said, "If our paths do cross out in the real world, I'll ask it then. Until then, let me enjoy this until I wake up."

SOC #30: An unfortunate sum of a fortunate outcome

I drank my coffee out of a cup that belongs to my father. It's a memorabilia coffee mug dedicated in memory to John Wayne. On the inside facing me as I drink is a quote that says: "Courage is facing death but saddling up anyway." Nice quote to begin the day, but not the best, or most encouraging from my perceptive. When Lemmy from the band Motorhead was asked if he feared death he simply said, "No." Now, who am I going to admire more? A conservative cowboy full of bullshit, or nonpolitical rock 'n roll musician who didn't give one flying fuck about what others thought of him? Lemmy lived his life the way he pleased, without any concern of the consequences of his actions, because in the end nothing what he actually did hurt anyone but his own health. The man died at 70 years old for fuck sake. People have died doing less than he did in his entire lifetime. Like for example: Heath Ledger. That motherfucker did legal pills prescribed by doctors, and dropped dead buck naked waiting to get a massage at 28 years old. Lemmy drank a bottle of bourbon everyday since 30 years old, did speed, LSD, cocaine, smoked weed, and died of an aggressive cancer without a care in the world. He probably died with a cigarette in his mouth. As Bill Hicks would say: "I'm getting mixed signals." I don't know why I'm blathering so much about Lemmy. I didn't listen to Motorhead a lot, with great regret, just a collection of songs my cousin put on my old iPod when I was 19 years old. But after the man's death, I've been watching videos of Lemmy on youtube for the past few days. A documentary made in 2010 about his day to day life, interviews of him sitting, talking, and drinking Jack and Coke, shopping(buying The Beatles in mono). Not like John Wayne, who cared about his image, and how "American" looking he should project himself. I like John Wayne movies, they're cool, but why the fuck did he concern himself on how "American" things should be. You make art, motherfucker, not propaganda bullshit on how life should be lived. That's a bit communist. Which of course he hated. The best quote I've ever heard is from Lemmy I heard just a few hours ago: "Fuck God. Fuck the Devil. Fuck the Church. I'm responsible for my actions, no one else." Now, that's a quote that inspires me to the fullest. Only little of what John Wayne said in his lifetime means anything to me. John Wayne was no true "American"; he was simply John fucking Wayne, and nothing more. No more than Lemmy was a "British" person. Lemmy was Lemmy and had no apologies about it. At the end of one of the documentaries I watched he said, "I want to be remembered as an honest man, as an honorable man. But that's out of the question." John Wayne probably said: "A blue blood, patriot American-" Who fucking cares what that tall bitch said. I don't know where I'm going with this posting. Oh, yeah, living life and acknowledging one's mistakes, and bettering oneself. John Wayne surely made mistakes, but pretended not to learn from, let alone remember them. Lemmy, I'm sure, learned from them, then didn't give a shit that he made a mistake in the first place. Doctor probably said to him, "You're going to die within six months." Lemmy responded, "Good. I got time for another tour. Shorter than I wanted." I could just picture him in his home in Los Angeles taking a nap, expecting to wake up, then dying with a grin on his face. Look, I've made mistakes in my own life. I mean, some of you have read about it from my previous posts. Fictionalized most of it is, yes, but the idea is there. I did it(some of it) then moved on. Cocaine, never doing it again. LSD dipped in shrooms, dear God, never want to go near someone who's even thinking about doing it. Marijuana... well, had my fun with the shit, but with the new thing they call "dabbing," goodbye, time to move one. Have fun with the crack of weed. I'm settled now with beer, which I'm drinking at this moment, and coffee in the morning, which I talked about at the beginning of this post when I first talked about John Wayne. I've ended up in places where most people would be depressed about for decades. It's taken me about 3 or 4 years, but now I'm over it. It's taken a wholehearted devotion to writing a novel inspired by such events, as well as having my heart broken by a cold-hearted BITCH! I shouldn't call her that, but I just did. I wrote so much, so fast for NaNoWriMo in the month of November in 2015 that I gave myself a break in the month of December. That break was a mistake, but I don't care. I do have a day job, you know, or a night job to be more specific. I haven't forgotten about the story I was writing, so that's a good thing. I have a general idea of how the story will finish, which is an even better thing. I don't know where I'm going with this post. Is there a point? Oh yeah: FUCK JOHN WAYNE! It's all about FUCKING LEMMY! Like Lemmy, I have no regrets so far in my life as I enter my 30th year of life. Well, I guess the only regret I have is not listening to all of the Motorhead albums growing up. Oops! Shame on me.

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."