Appropriate Fame

A nobody like him found fame when he wasn't even looking for it, and it was for a reason he wished never happened. 

     When Raymond slid a copy of the ticket he printed out back at home, the host standing behind the counter asked, "So, no QR code?" 

     Raymond looked at her, confused. He asked, "What's that you say?" 

     The host raised an eyebrow, saying, "Um, it's what people scan with their phones to save time, so they don't have to Google anything." 

     "Isn't Googling stuff saving one's time in the first place?" Raymond asked. 

     The host of The Comedy Storage that evening could tell that Raymond was being genuine; not sarcastic in an attempt to make her either laugh, or comically become perturbed. Raymond Krexler was not a comedian. 

     "Anyways," the host began saying, "I'm just going to scan the QR code, and you're going to take out your driver's license." 

     "Yes, ma'am," Raymond said, taking out his wallet from his jean's pocket, opened it, and found his driver's license. 

     "'Ma'am'," the host of The Comedy Storage repeated as she took Raymond's I.D. and handed the ticket back to him. "Seriously?" 

     "Oh, I'm sorry," Raymond said, flustering nervously. "Are you one of those... um, shit... trans -- in transition to be like the opposite of a man?" 

     The host almost started laughing as she checked Raymond's date of birth on his driver's license. 

     "No, Raymond, I'm all woman from birth to death." 

     "Oh, thank God," Raymond said, folding his ticket, and putting it in his back pocket. "This is my first time in the Hollywood Land environment. I don't want to fuck up things, you know. Plus, your name threw me off." 

     Raymond pointed to the host's name tag pinned to her black t-shirt. He said, "Logan. I forget it's a unisex name." 

     "No worries, Raymond," Logan said, handing him back his I.D. "I know things can be hard for Gen X."

     "Technically, I'm a millennial," Raymond corrected. 

     "Whatever, Raymond. There's a two drink minimum. Alcoholic, or non. Enjoy the show. Welcome to The Comedy Storage, where all the best jokes are found."

     Walking down the hallway leading to the sitting area in the main stage room, Raymond couldn't help but admire all the classic standup comedians depicted in amazing neon lights who started their successful careers at The Comedy Storage. He knew that in a few minutes he'd be sitting by himself at one of the tables before the main stage, laughing and giggling at the next Sam Kinison, Andy Kaufman, or Ellen DeGeneres. But Raymond was not solely at the infamous star making comedy club to hopefully witness the next Dave Chappelle; he wanted to meet the woman of his dreams, a standup comedian who was slowly, but surely on the rise: Leslie Dunkman. 

     Around six months prior to arriving in Los Angeles for a week long vacation, Raymond was eating lunch in the break room at the recycling facility he worked at in Oakland. Before he got to eating the lettuce, tomato, and turkey sandwich his mother had made him, he was browsing through YouTube to watch a video as he ate. He found one titled: Leslie Dunkman On Being dumped. 

     He clicked on it, laid his iPhone on the table, and began eating his sandwich. The footage was amateur; it was filmed with a phone from the very back of the audience. As he listened to Leslie do her bit about being dumped by a fat guy for not having a "beach-bod," Raymond almost choked on the sandwich when he laughed mid-swallow. He put the food down, picked up his cellphone to look closer at Leslie. He fell in love with her right then and there. 

     He later found her Twitter, read her witty tweets, watched the cute and funny skits that she and her friends filmed. All the while Raymond kept his fingers crossed, hoping she was actually single. There was no indication throughout her social media regarding a relationship status with either a boyfriend, or girlfriend. On Twitter she had six thousand followers, while on Instagram she achieved just over fifteen thousand. 

     Raymond saw on Instagram that Leslie would post videos of her part-time work as a tattoo artist. He admired the work she did. So much so that he decided to finally go somewhere on his vacation. Usually he'd do a stay-cation at home back in Oakland, sometimes taking a BART train to San Francisco, and get drunk at a bar he liked called The Riptide on open mid night to watch local musicians impersonate their hippie idols. 

     When he told his coworkers where he'd spend the weeklong vacation, one of them said, "About damn time you take a drive to see some of the world, even if it's in the same damn state." 

     A week later he found himself ordering a Racer Five I.P.A and a shot of Wild Turkey at one of the most infamous Comedy Clubs in the entire world. 

     "Shit, two drinks already?" the bartender said. "You're not depressed about sucking at an audition, are you?" The bartender then turned to pour Raymond's booze. 

     "Audition?" Raymond asked, confused. Then after a moment, he said, "Oh, I get it, you think I'm an actor. No, I'm just a blue-collar worker on vacation. I always order a beer and a shot after work." 

     As the bartender poured the shot of Wild Turkey, he said, "That makes sense. So, where do you hail from, out of state?" 

     "Oakland," Raymond replied, sliding over the his debit card for the drinks. 

     "No shit?" the bartender responded. "I'm from Pinole." 

     "Whoa, cool," Raymond said, lifting his shot glass. "Here's to a small world." 

     "Want an open tab?" 

     Raymond gave the bartender a thumbs up to say, Yes. To the bartender's amazement, Raymond gulped down the Wild Turkey, then washed it down with some of the Racer Five. 

     "Fuck, man, you are blue-collar," the bartender said. "My name's Kevin." He then reached over to shake Raymond's hand. 

     "I'm Raymond." 

     As the two Bay Area fellows greeted one another at the bar, a twenty-something comedian yelled into the mic onstage, "Hey, lovebirds at the bar! Shut the fuck up! I'm bombing up here!" 

     Still holding on to the bartender's hand, Raymond half-turned to look at the stage and people sitting at the tables. There were a few giggles, but it was mostly shocked silence. 

     Raymond raised his hand, and said, "I'm sorry. My bad." 

     The comedian onstage impersonated Raymond in a childlike voice, "'My bad, oh my bad.'" The comedian then continued his bit about giving himself a blow job. 

     His grip still holding Raymond's hand, Kevin steadily pulled him closer to quietly speak in his ear: "Don't take that personally. He does that when he's getting no laughs, and if anybody so happens to be ordering at the bar. Are you cool?" 

     "Oh, yes," Raymond affirmed. "I totally get it." 

     Raymond then -- as stealthily as he could -- walked over and sat at an empty table near the back. He saw the young comedian staring at him as he continued to do a lame bit about being locked inside an outhouse in Finland. He was the only one to laugh before sipping on his beer. 

     When the young comedian was finished onstage, Raymond and some others clapped. Raymond followed the guy with his eyes for a bit until he realized the dude was making his way towards him. 

     "Hey, man," the young man said, "I'm sorry about that. It's what I pull if none of my jokes are landing." 

     "Kevin informed me about that," Raymond said. "Even if that weren't true, I'd still be cool with it. I'm no Will Smith." 

     The young comedian chuckled, saying, "Well, thank you for that. The comedy world needs more people like you. My name's Adam. What's yours?" 

     "Raymond Krexler," Raymond replied, shaking Adam's hand. 

     "Cool name. Look, I want to make it up to you. Come with me to the green room."

     "Really?" Raymond said, shocked. 

     "Yeah, man," Adam assured. "And when you've paid for your second drink, booze is on the house as long as you're back there." 

     "This is my second drink," Raymond said. 

     "That's your second glass of beer already?" Adam asked. 

     "No, my first drink was a shot of Wild Turkey," Raymond informed. 

     "What? Did you have a bad audition earlier today?" 

     As Raymond followed Adam into the green room, the comic announced him as soon as he passed through the threshold: "May I introduce a Sir Raymond Krexler from Oakland, California! Everyone shut up, and say, 'Hello, Raymond!'" 

     A group of around five comedians -- ages ranging from twenty-five to early thirties -- turned to look in Raymond's direction. 

     A young lady Raymond wasn't familiar with, said to Adam, "Fresh meat from the slaughter, dude?" 

     "No, no, Raymond here is just a blue-collar paying customer," Adam informed. 

     Another young comedian, who was finishing a marijuana joint, said to the group, "It's another traumatized tourist, Adam means." 

     "Not again, Adam," a voice familiar to Raymond called out from the open bar. "You need to work on your bits, and you just need to keep your shit together when all remains silent out there." 

     Raymond's eyes brightened at the sight of Leslie Dunkman, and his ears were soothed by the sound of her voice. He hoped no one noticed the sound of his breathing nearly making him gasp with joy. 

     The stoner dubbed out his joint on the bottom of his shoe, and said, "So, Oakland, what you drinking?" 

     "Racer Five," Raymond replied, taking a sip of the beer in his hand. 

     "No," the stoned comedian said, "what do you want a shot of? I'm sure Adam told you it's complimentary." 

     "Wild Turkey, then," Raymond said. 

     Everyone in the room, except for Adam, gasped. Some of the other ladies placing a hand over their chest to emphasize the shock. 

     "Damn, Adam," the stoner blurted. 

     "What the fuck did you say to this poor man, Adam?" Leslie asked. 

     "What?" Adam basically whined. "It was the usual. My voice started echoing back from over those sheep about to fall asleep, and Raymond here so happened to just come in, and actually was talking to Kevin at the bar." 

     "Kevin did explain it to me almost immediately," Raymond said. "It's all good. I'm cool. I just love Wild Turkey." 

     "Well, okay then, come with me over to the bar," Leslie said, beckoning him to join her. 

     Smiling brightly, Raymond said, "Certainly. I'm thirsting to down another one." 

     As Raymond came up to the small corner bar, Leslie was popping open a fresh new bottle of the bourbon. He knew why she had to open a new one, so that was the subject of conversation he started with in speaking to the girl of his dreams. 

     "I see there are never any Wild Turkey drinkers back here," he said, as Leslie filled two shot glasses. 

     "Yeah, every newbie wants to be levelheaded before going up," Leslie said, handing Raymond the full shot glass. "Except for Steven over there." She pointed at the stoner who spoke to Raymond earlier. She continued, "He's high on weed after doing a few lines in the bathroom." 

     Raymond looked over at Steven standing in the short hallway leading out of the green room. He saw Steven hopping up and down, sizing himself up as if he were about to run the hundred yard dash for Olympic gold. 

     "I'm breaking both legs," Steven yelled to everyone. "See you at the E.R. later." He then was gone as Raymond heard the high comedian being announced on the main stage. 

     "He's at least funnier than Adam," Leslie said. 

     "Hey, that hurts," Adam said, sitting on one of the couches. 

     Leslie told him to grow a pear, and write better jokes. She then raised her shot glass, and said to Raymond, "Here's to real talent." 

     Raymond raised his own shot glass level with Leslie's, and said, "To your talent." 

     They both downed the bourbon. Raymond chased it down by gulping the rest of his beer. Leslie couldn't help but stare at him doing so as she chased down the bourbon's burn with bottled water. 

     "Goddamn, dude," Leslie said. "You are truly blue-collar. Are you in construction?" 

     "No," Raymond replied. "I sort through recycling on a moving conveyer belt. Separate the paper from the plastic. Unscrew the bottle caps, etc. etc." 

     "Do you like it?" Leslie asked, pouring bourbon into the shot glasses once again. 

     "Thank you," Raymond said, gesturing at the new shot of Wild Turkey coming his way. "Yeah, I like it. Once you get past the nasty smell, and the mundane boredom of the job, the eight hour shifts wiz by like nothing. Though it took a while to not drink and smoke weed on the job every once in a while."

     Leslie giggled. She then asked a fairly common question of any kind of tourist, "What brings you out here to La La Land?" 

     The booze Raymond had ingested since being in The Comedy Storage was about to make him honest for once. They don't call it liquid courage for nothing. 

     "For you," Raymond said. 

     "What?" Leslie uttered. 

     "I wanted to spend my first vacation away from home to come see you here perform onstage," Raymond said, his eyes becoming hazy from inebriation. He couldn't wait for his next shot. He continued, "Never thought I'd be lucky enough to be back here actually talking face to face like this. I've never been so lucky. Like ever." 

     Leslie's expression went blank at first, then a look of concern formed, almost like worry and fear. 

     "I recognize you," Leslie said. "You liked all my Instagram posts." 

     "Of course I did," Raymond said, chuckling. "I'm your biggest fan." 

     Leslie hastily walked around Raymond, making a beeline straight out of the green room. 

     "Hey, where are you going?" Adam asked. 

     "We didn't drink our second round Wild Turkey shots yet," Raymond said. 

     "The fuck you think I'm going, the bathroom," Leslie said, not looking at anyone else in the room before disappearing. 

     "Must be a number two poo poo," Adam said. "Yo, Raymond, come sit on the couch with Stacie and I. She wants you to regale her on why people up in the Bay Area say, 'Hella' all the time." 

     Answering such a query from a Southern Californian wasn't the first time for Raymond; one of his supervisors at his job was from Los Angeles, always asking about the local vernacular. He decided to drink the two shots Leslie had left behind. He then moved over to sit on the couch between Adam and Stacie. 

     "What exactly does saying 'hella' actually quantify?" Stacie asked. 

     Before he could give her an answer a large man entered the green room. He yelled, "Where's this Raymond?" 

     A female comedian Raymond had not been formerly introduced to pointed him out for the big guy. 

     "That's Travis, the head of the bouncers around these parts," Adam told Raymond. "Hey, Trav, this here Raymond is from your neck of the woods up in--" 

     Travis quickly went up to Raymond, looking down at him sitting on the couch, he asked, "What are you doing back here?" 

     "Yo, Trav, I--," Adam began to say. 

     Travis put a hand up to Adam's face to shut him up. He said, "I'm only talking to Cathy Bates here. I'll ask gain: What the fuck are you doing here?" 

     "Um, I came to see the show," Raymond said. "It's my first time in L.A. -- "

     "Back here, in the green room," Travis interrupted. "Why are you in here?" 

     The room was silent. Raymond observed everyone's confused expressions for a moment. 

     "Adam invited me to hangout," Raymond said. 

     "You've made Leslie uncomfortable," Travis said. "You got to leave the premises." 

     "Look, I didn't -- " Raymond attempted to say before -- to everyone else's shock -- Travis bent down, hooked his arm under Raymond's left armpit, picked him off of the couch, causing Adam to spill his drink, and hastily dragged Raymond out of the green room. Raymond attempted to physically protest, but Travis tightened his hold on him, hurting his shoulder. 

     "Fuck, man, that hurt!" Raymond yelped. 

     "Good," Travis said as they emerged into view of the crowd near the bar. "It's what a stalker like you deserves." 

     "Stalker?" Raymond said, shocked. "I ain't a fucking stalker, yo." 

     Raymond attempted to walk upright, but Travis was relentless, holding him down. It caused Raymond to knock into the very table he had been sitting at when Adam walked up to him. 

     "Try that again, and I'll knock you out," Travis yelled. 

     This caused all the people in the audience to turn their heads toward the commotion. They only got the tail end of it as Travis continued to drag Raymond toward the outside patio for smoking instead of the entrance he had come in through earlier when he gave his ticket to Logan. 

     As Travis was pulling the stumbling Raymond through the empty patio, Raymond said, "Look, sir, there's a simple misunderstanding. I was here just to see the show, nothing -- " 

     Travis got Raymond to the patio entrance, and threw him on the concrete sidewalk. 

     "-- nefarious," Raymond yelped as he hit the ground. 

     "Not only are you eighty-sixed, you're banned from ever entering this place again," Travis said. "You're cancelled, bitch." 

     As Raymond slowly got up to his feet, he said, "How could I be cancelled if I'm not even a fucking celebrity?" He started to laugh. 

     "You being smart, you bitch?" Travis stepped toward Raymond, and pushed him off his feet. 

     Raymond fell backward onto the pavement in between two parked cars. He cursed in pain. 

     Travis pointed down at him, and said, "No incels allowed in here, boy." He then turned around to go back in the building. 

     "Wait," Raymond called out, still laying on the pavement, "my debit card. Kevin still has it." 

     Travis turned back around, and said, "Your ass pays for two drinks from the bar, and four drinks from the green room." 

     "That's fine," Raymond said. 

     "Plus the eighteen percent gratuity for --"

     Travis was interrupted when -- from out of Raymond's view, due to lying between the two parked cars -- loud gunfire erupted. Three bullets in total hit Travis: two in the chest, one right in the gut. He fell to the sidewalk on his back. 

     When the shooter came near to the entrance of the patio, he looked down at Travis laying on the concrete, dying. He decided not to put another AR-15 bullet in Travis again; the bouncer was finished. He looked over between the two parked cars where he saw Travis push Raymond toward. He did not see anyone laying on the pavement. The shooter figured the fallen man had run off like a coward, so, decked out all in black like a member of a police SWAT Team without the helmet, the murderer turned toward to go inside The Comedy Storage, and continue his killing spree. As he passed the railings, he saw the patio bartender simply standing behind the counter, shaking, too shocked and horrified to move. The shooter took aim on the deathly pale bartender, but before he could shoot the AR-15 he was bum-rushed, his body slammed into the wall. 

     It was Raymond. After the shooter bounced off the wall he turned to Raymond, and raised his gun to shoot him. Raymond slapped the barrel of the gun with his hand. It went off, the bullet hitting the ground. The shooter raised it again, and this time Raymond gripped the hot barrel with his other hand, lifted it up above his head. The gun went off one last time, with the bullet going into the ceiling. 

     "Not tonight, bitch!" Raymond yelled. He then punched the shooter in the left cheek. 

     The shooter lost hold of the gun when Raymond's hard fist caused his head to hit the wall. Raymond got hold of the rifle with both his hands, turned it sideways, pulled it close to him, then slammed the center of it across the shooter's throat. The shooter, who hadn't said a word since before murdering Travis, looked at Raymond in the eyes, his teeth bared like a rabid dog desperately wanting to bite any kind of flesh near it. 

     Raymond, his forehead dripping with sweat, stared right back at the shooter's hateful eyes, and said, "You're not taking her away from me." 

     As fast as he could, Raymond pulled back the gun, and slammed it right into the shooter's throat. This caused the shooter's raging, contorted face to turn into a fish out of water. His jaw dropped. Raymond knew he broke the bastard's windpipe. When he released the rifle from pressing against the shooter's neck, he immediately heard the heaving sound of oxygen barely making it to the idiot's lungs. 

     "Drowning on land rather sucks, don't it, shithead?" Raymond said, then grabbed the shooter by his collar and, as hard as he could, pulled the choking man and threw him on the ground behind him. The shooter's hands went to his throat after hitting the ground. 

     "So you think you can turn a laugh factory of happiness and joy into a slaughter house of screams and horror," Raymond said, moving closer to the shooter laying on the ground, ejecting the rifle's magazine, and popping out the last round from the chamber, letting them bounce on the ground. Standing over the heaving shooter, Raymond, his hands gripping the AR-15's barrel and grip, raised the murder machine over his head like a baseball bat, he said, "This is how you really use a gun this big." 

     He began hitting the shooter hard: Once in the left leg, then twice in the stomach. This made the shooter turn on his stomach in pain, trying to crawl away. Raymond hit him three times in the back. This made the shooter turn back around, giving up, and laying on his back. He looked up at Raymond, tears in his eyes, his lungs desperate for a full breath of air. 

     Raymond tossed away the rifle, put a finger behind his right ear, and asked, "What's that you said? Oh, that's right. You can't talk. I'll make sure you're never able to speak again." 

     Raymond stepped right onto the shooter's throat, and crushed any chance of the killer ever breathing fresh air again. Raymond failed to notice the shooter reaching for a semi-automatic handgun he had in a holster at his hip. In his last moments of life he raised it, and blindly fired once.

     "AW! SHIT!" Raymond screamed. "My ASS!" 

     In utter shock, Raymond fell to the ground of the patio, cursing in frustration at the fact he didn't notice the shooter's handgun as he was beating him with the rifle. Raymond, breathing heavily in agony at the pain coming from his right butt cheek, he looked over to the shooter holding the handgun with a twitching grip, still aimed at the ceiling. Raymond watched the murderer's last moments on Earth. 

     A year and a half later Raymond attended the red carpet for the film premiere of Comedy's Guardian, which was about the murder of Travis on that terrible night at The Comedy Storage. As he nervously walked in front of photographers, and spoke with entertainment reporters, Logan held his hand, and at times, put an arm around Raymond's shivering shoulder's. When she'd kiss him on the cheek, she would whisper in his ear, "You're doing good. Just be yourself. Everyone likes you." 

     All the comedians who were at The Comedy Storage the night Raymond saved them found some kind of fame. Logan had just filmed a standup special for Netflix. Raymond had written a few jokes for her, but he didn't know if they made the final cut. The two had been dating since reconnecting on the set of the movie when Raymond and her were consulting the actors playing them. 

     The first day Raymond was on the film set, Leslie Dunkman -- who actually was playing herself in the film -- attempted to approach him, and thank him for saving her life. He turned his back on her in front of the entire film crew, and never said a word to her since that terrible night Travis was murdered by some kind of monster. 

     It was because Leslie was the girl of his dreams. Raymond made sure to keep it that way. 

     

     

     

Henry's Secret

Chris Hagen's eyes were on Henry Cowart as soon as he entered Mondo's Restaurant, because Chris was facing the entrance while sitting at a booth. Chris had waited patiently for almost a full half-hour. And even though the two had never met in the flesh before that moment, these two strangers could put each other's name to the right face. 

     Chris raised his arm to wave at Henry, saying, "Hello, Mr. Cowart?" 

     With an affable grin, Henry walked over to the booth. Chris stood up, and shook Henry's hand. 

     "It's great to finally meet you, sir," Chris said. 

     "Call me Henry, please," Henry said, letting go of Chris' friendly grip. 

     "All right, cool. Please, sit down, and let's eat." Chris gestured to the seat opposite to where he had been sitting. 

     Henry took off the hiking backpack he was wearing, placed it on the booth's seat, leaning it against the restaurant's wall beside them. After sitting down, he said to Chris, "I'm sorry about being late. The clock's alarm in the hotel room didn't work this morning." 

     "That's okay," Chris said, waving his hand. "Your apology is quite unnecessary." 

     "It's just that I feel bad about it, being that we're doing this thing for your uncle." 

     "Nah, none of that," Chris told him. "You're here. And the day isn't lost. So let's eat before we do this." Chris beckoned for the waiter to take their order. "You know what you want to eat?" 

     Henry looked down at the menu laying on the table before him, browsed the burger selection, finding exactly what he wanted right when the waiter got to their table. 

     When the waiter walked away with their order written on the note pad in one hand, and the menus in the other, Chris asked Henry: "So, you're a vegetarian?" 

     "No," Henry said, "I'm actually a vegan. Why do you ask? Are you one of those meat-eaters that can't understand how one cannot eat non-living food?" 

     "Oh no, no," Chris said, almost stuttering in nervousness. "I didn't mean to sound like an ass." 

     "No, man," Henry said, holding up his hand, and smiling a bit. "I'm just fucking with you. Yes, I'm vegan. And if the cook forgets to not include the cheese in the veggie burger, I'll just scrape it off." 

     "The thing is that my uncle was extremely health conscious before he left this world," Chris informed. "Years before he died. Even after he got appendicitis like that one actor when he switched to just eating fruits and vegetables way too fast." 

     "That happens a lot, you know," Henry informed. "People should do the research before becoming a vegan. They've got to ease their body into it." 

     Henry put up his index finger in front of Chris' face to emphasize what he said next: "It can be dangerous to eat healthy." 

     Chris let out a cackle loud enough for other patron's in the restaurant to turn and look in his direction. Noticing the slight commotion he caused, Chris immediately covered his mouth. Henry simply giggled. 

     Ten minutes later their burgers and french fries arrived to the booth. As they ate, neither of them said a word until the plates were empty. 

     "You know, last night I was wondering," Henry began to say. 

     "Yes?" Chris asked. 

     "I was going to text you my question, but felt more comfortable asking you in person." 

     "Shoot," Chris said. "I'm comfortable answering any of your questions. Just not anything regarding what my social security number is, my credit cards, or passwords." 

     "And I would expect the same by you, being that we're strangers, Chris. That brings me to exactly what I was wondering. You stated on Twitter that your uncle requested in his will that his ashes be scattered near Doubtful Lake by you, and a complete stranger. Why a complete stranger?" 

     "I've asked myself the same question, as well as my entire family," Chris said. "The thing is, he and I spent a lot of time together while I grew up. He'd always come around to visit his sister -- my mom -- and he'd hang out with me all the time. He was like a second father to me." 

     "Oh, I see," Henry said. "He didn't have a family of his own?" 

     "No, he never succeeded in getting a wife," Chris said. "Though he came close a few times. And to further elaborate on your original question, I think he felt that I didn't get out much, and not have many friends. You know, I have friends. Not many. I don't see them all the time. It's because I am more of a homebody." 

     "Well, you can now say you have a new friend, Chris," Henry said. 

     There was a moment of silence as Chris stared at him blankly. He then grinned. 

     "Time will tell," he said to Henry. "There are no guarantees in life. That's what my uncle taught me, anyways." 

     "What was your uncle's name, by the way?" Henry asked. 

     "Oh yeah," Chris said, smiling and shaking his head for a moment. "That's right. I never told you his name. Um, I'll tell you when we get to Doubtful Lake." 

     "That makes sense," Henry said. "It would do him a better honor." 

     "Thank you," Chris said. 

     Chris paid the bill before they both walked outside to the parking lot. 

     "Want me to follow you to the Cascade Pass Trailhead in my own car?" Henry asked. 

     "No," Chris replied. "I'll drive us both in my car." 

     "You've got a nice looking vehicle there," Henry commented as he followed Chris to a white four-door car. 

     "Thanks. You can put your backpack in the backseat. Hope you got plenty of water in there." 

     After making himself comfortable in the passenger seat, Henry looked at the backseat as he put on his seatbelt. 

     "Where's your backpack?" Henry asked. 

     Chris started the car's engine, and said, "In the trunk." 

     "Is your uncle's ashes in the trunk too?" 

     "Yes, in the backpack." 

     Chris drove his car out of Mondo's Restaurant parking lot, and got onto Cascade River Road going east toward the Trailhead. 

     A few miles down the road, Chris pointed to a sign that said: Gilbert's Cabin: One Mile. 

     "You see that?" Chris asked. 

     "Yeah. It says we're about to pass Gilbert's Cabin. Do you want to stop and see it, or something?" 

     "No. I've already been up there to see it. I was surprised the place was still in good condition. I learned people volunteered to clear out the shrubbery surrounding the path that leads up to it." 

     "I'm surprised no one bought the place to live in it," Henry said. 

     "It's in no condition to be a place of shelter. It has no doors, no glass where the windows are suppose to be. Just a hundred-forty year old cabin with a layer of dirt inside for a floor. Though the fire place still stands right in the middle of the small building. You know, it makes me think." 

     "Like what?" Henry asked. 

     "A place that old, that empty," Chris began to say, then his voice faded away to silence. 

     "What?" Henry asked.

     "Huh," Chris uttered. 

     "I believe you were making some point," Henry reminded. 

     "Oh, yeah," Chris said, almost as if coming out of a daydream. "Secrets. Even though Gilbert's Cabin is completely empty, it still has its secrets." 

     They both remained quiet until Chris drove to the end of Cascade River Road where the parking lot for the Cascade Pass Trailhead was. The end of the road for cars was the beginning of the path for hikers. 

     "There aren't any other cars parked here," Henry observed. 

     As Chris parked his car nearest to the entrance of the hiking trail, he said, "That's because it's in between holiday seasons right now, and if there is anyone hiking up there now probably took an Uber ride here." 

     "Wow, I'm shocked there are Uber drivers even out here in the area," Henry said, getting out of the car. 

     "Uber's everywhere, my man," Chris said, closing the car door, then walking toward the car's trunk. He pressed a button on his car's remote door opener, popping open the trunk, and leaned in to get the backpack with his uncle's ashes inside it. 

     Henry hung his own backpack over his shoulders, and said, "So, he's really in there, huh?" 

     Without looking at Henry, Chris said, "Yes. And he will soon repent and finally be at peace." Chris closed the trunk, then headed to the Trailhead hiking path without looking at Henry. 

     As Henry followed Chris on the hiking trail to their final destination near Doubtful Lake, neither of them said a word until they got to the spot Chris had picked to spread his uncle's ashes. Henry felt it more appropriate to not say anything unless Chris spoke. 

     When Doubtful Lake came into view, Chris came to a complete stop. Henry stayed a few feet behind him, and thought he'd only stand beside Chris if he requested. For a minute Chris remained unmoved as he gazed at the lake just down the hill to its calm shore. 

     "Here we are, Uncle Patrick," Chris said, as he took off his backpack, placing it on the ground at his feet. He bend down, zipped open the backpack, and reached inside. 

     Henry quietly took off his own backpack, placed it on the ground at his feet, then looked around. As far as he could tell, they were the only two people present in the immediate vicinity, along with Uncle Patrick's ashes. 

     Chris took out the silver urn from the backpack with both hands. He lifted it before his eyes. On the urn's reflective surface he could see Henry getting on one knee beside his backpack. 

     "Thank you for kneeling, Henry," Chris said into the reflection. 

     Henry looked up at Chris, and said, "Oh, um, I was just getting some water." 

     "Well, it's honorable and appropriate you do so, irregardless," Chris said, smiling, a tear rolling down his cheek. "Because I'm grateful you came. A complete stranger as my Uncle Patrick requested." 

     Chris' gaze went back to Doubtful Lake, and held the urn closer to his chest. 

     He began to say, "You asked earlier about the reason he requested in his will for a stranger to be present at the spreading of his ashes. It's because he wanted me to ask you to forgive him, if you had it in your heart, that is." 

     "Forgive him for what?" Henry asked. 

     Chris heard Henry zipping open his backpack behind him, and the sound of his hands reaching inside it. 

     "The man in my arms right now was serial killer Patrick Herckman," Chris said, more tears flowing from his eyes. "I didn't know that fact until the trial. The evidence was overwhelming, and he deserved to be put to death two months ago. It destroyed my family. Not as bad as the families of his victims, but destroyed us nonetheless. Decide whether you forgive him, or not in silence as I spread his ashes here at Doubtful Lake. You, Henry Cowart, a complete stranger must fulfill my Uncle's final wishes by simply--"

     Chris was interrupted by Henry, who walked up right behind him as he was talking: "My real name's not Henry Cowart, and I'm no stranger to Patrick." 

     The gun in Henry's gloved hand went off, blasting the bullet into Chris' right temple. Chris fell to the ground, his last heartbeats streaming out the blood from the bullet hole. The urn holding Uncle Patrick's rolled away from Chris' body, the lid open, spilling some of the ashes onto the dirt and rocks of the hiking path. 

     Henry bent down to place the unregistered handgun into the palm of Chris' limp right hand. He raised back up, turned in a complete circle to observe the quiet, empty area, then looked back down at the dead body of Chris. 

     "Two lives for the many lives taken by your insane, sick, disgusting dear old Uncle fucking Patrick," Henry said. "Here's a secret for you, stupid. Even though she chose my brother over me, I loved her enough to risk my freedom and avenge her rape, and murder by the hands of that demon." 

     Before picking up his backpack and heading to the parking lot, Henry grabbed Chris' car keys from the dead man's pocket. After wiping down the passenger side of the car Chris drove, he tossed the keys into the bushes to make it seem like Chris committed suicide while holding his serial killer Uncle's ashes. He then got himself an Uber to drive him straight to the hotel. He was late to the restaurant that morning, because he walked by foot from the hotel instead of driving, so he did not have to go back there for someone to maybe remember his face. 

     Chris Hagen's body was found a day later. Law Enforcement immediately suspected foul play, but in the attempt of finding the DNA of Chris' possible murderer, they realized that Chris Hagen's own DNA matched semen found inside one of Patrick Herckman's victims after recovering the body five years earlier. Further investigation revealed that skin samples under another female victim's nails were matched to Chris as well. Revealing the secret that he was Patrick Herckman's mysterious family accomplice they had been looking for. The terrible revelation was that the authorities never suspected the nephew, meaning they didn't check everyone. 

     Henry's secret was safe with what ashes were left near Doubtful Lake. 

     

     

Before His Celebrity

Just because I found out the Paradise I was promised became a true lie, doesn’t actually mean I have any regrets of trying to at least experience it. I’ve been called “stupid” for quitting a good job before, but I was also called the same for taking the supposed “heavenly” one for a marijuana dispensary in Santa Barbara, California in October of 2010. Well, I actually started in November, but I left my hometown in the San Francisco Bay Area for the bright coastal city in Southern California right before Halloween.

It is true the culture of Northern California differs from that of the Southern, but in my eyes, even though people closer to Los Angeles use a different vernacular, I can’t really tell the difference — just more white people with tans, and a lot more people wearing tank tops, and walking around in flip-flops. One of the funniest things a Southern Californian asked me was, “What’s the quantum behind the word ‘Hella'?”

I replied, “A lot.”

I don’t know how much detail I can describe about the legal marijuana business I worked for in those months between October 2010 through early May 2011, but I will politely tread softly by simply saying this: My boss still owes me a thousand dollars. I’ll admit, in the decade since I quit that job, I haven’t really tried hard to get the money; there were definitely good reasons why my former boss did not find paying the employees his highest priority. One of the reasons was the fact he served as a “botany” consultant for a big Hollywood crime film. The other reasons… well, karma has a funny way of disciplining those with good intentions, but at the same time have a tendency to make bad, deluded choices in the practice of hypocrisy.

I’d rather talk about my friendly coworkers I had the pleasure of trimming bud alongside. Of course I should speak briefly of the best friend who got me connected with the job in the first place. I won’t mention his name — I think his current wife would rather have me keep him anonymous. He’s an individual I first met in the third grade when he first moved to America with his family from Mexico. In class he sat across from me. He did not speak a word of English at the time, so I really could not communicate with him. Though half my heritage is Mexican, the Spanish language was not passed down to my Mexican-American mother due to the prejudice of speaking the language during the upbringing of my grandparents. My friend was only in my third grade class for one day, then moved to another because a white teacher could translate for him in broken Spanish.

I did not meet him again until the seventh grade, where we became fast friends, and have been since. He claims I made fun of him for not being able to speak English back in the third grade.

“I never even talked to you,” I’ve said to him on many occasions when we’re drunk. “How could I?”

“Fine, it was the other kids,” he admitted — on the many occasions when we’d reminisce of the past, drunkenly. “I sometimes feel I have to accuse you, because all the kids who were making fun of me were American Mexicans. I have to blame a white boy sometimes.”

We laugh off the past as the joke it is every time.

This other coworker I trimmed bud with was the usual white boy hippie type, who once was a punk-rocker, but had found Rastafari and turned to Reggae music. He was a bassist, I think.

“Hey, man, don’t do acid when you have a cold,” he told me one evening, as we trimmed bud in the weed house in Santa Barbara, just the two of us.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because, I seriously thought I was going to die,” he claimed. “Like for six hours straight I laid on the ground, believing my heart had stopped the day before.”

He was a bit strange. I totally forgot his name. He claimed to have been the cousin of the first person to have been inappropriately touched by that one famous guy who invented the moonwalk while performing live on Earth. Of course, I did not believe him. And I have no idea whether or not he even was a good musician.

The coolest group I got to work with were the roadies for Damian Marley. Hell, they worked for all the Marley’s who did music, but during the time I trimmed bud with them in the weed house, they were between tour dates for both American Rap Artist Nas, and Damian “Jr. Gong” who actually made an album together — Distant Relatives (2010). I must have heard that album five hundred times when all the reggae stoners were in the house trimming. It’s a great album, of course, but when I had the house to myself, it was Danzig, System of a Down, or The Doors on blast. When my boss came in on the rare occasions he’d pay me, he’d state my choice of music was evil and satanic. For a spiritualist who loved to reference the Zodiac, he sure sounded like a devoted Catholic.

I won’t get into the reason why I never went back to that cool job in Santa Barbara; it’s a story for another time. I want to talk about nine years later, during the lockdown of 2020, having a phone conversation with my friend, the very one who got me the job for the marijuana dispensary. All of a sudden we began to reminisce about our time living and working in the weed house, and going out into the night to a club called Sharkeez. Good times. The last era of my life I was free to chill, relax, sit back, and watch the world go by, because I was completely content. Before my luck ran out once again, but that’s a story for another time.

As my mind was stuck in reverie of good memories, I heard my friend ask, “Did you know Andy’s son Pat is famous now?”

“Who’s Andy’s son?” I inquired. “I don’t remember anyone named ‘Andy’ back then.”

“No, stupid, not ‘Andy,’ Anderson,” he corrected.

“I don’t remember anyone named Anderson back then,” I said. “You must be speaking of someone who worked there after I left. You were there for like another year.”

“No, he was there when you were, for sure,” he assured me. “You should’ve heard of him. He did a song with Mac Miller.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of Miller before,” I said. “Unfortunately only when he died. I’m not up to date on today’s pop culture. Remember, I had no idea who Katy Perry was until the first day I showed up to Santa Barbara, when Liz mentioned the chic was from there. Hell, I didn’t even know who Justin Bieber was until he got a DUI. So, who’s this Andy Pat you mentioned?”

“Anderson Paak,” he corrected. “Come on, man, you met him. You told me you hung out with him at the house that one day, when I went to Vegas for a few days. He told you about how his father stabbed his mom when he was like seven, or something.”

“You mean Brandon?” I said. “The dude whose wife was pregnant. And he was part Korean. Said his middle name was Paak.”

“The black guy who I told you stole hella weed. Like pounds of it when [The Boss] wouldn’t show up to pay us,” my friend added.

“Dude, we all took weed from that a**hole,” I informed my friend. “I sold like three ounces of the man’s stuff here at home, but got tired of all the phone calls asking me for an eighth. I just smoked the rest. Those were the days.”

“You should start again,” my friend suggested. “Anyways, the dude’s hella famous now. I think he even got a Grammy.”

The next day I looked up on YouTube whether my friend was screwing with me. Lo and behold, damn, he is famous. I didn’t believe it at first, of course. My friend had been mistaken about certain things before — smoking weed does cause many users to have moments in delusions of grandeur where what they want most in life is granted to them by fate alone. But, nope, not this time.

For me, it was that smile Brandon Anderson has which did it for me; it’s really God’s gift for the man. It emotes the kind of happiness, and vibe which is positively infectious for those in his presence who are lucky enough to witness it.

Yes, I once knew Anderson .Paak in the year 2011, and through my friend, I learned of his fame in the year 2020. At the moment, he has succeeded in earning himself eight Grammys. And I believe he will win more.

During my 20’s — back when I still smoked marijuana — I always wanted to hang out with a celebrity, and puff-pass a blunt between the two of us. So, years later, in the stressful year of 2020, my friend basically informed me I already had.

I won’t say what Anderson .Paak and I conversed about while trimming bud alone in the weed house that one day. Though, when I learned about the fact he wasn’t at the Grammys when he won his first trophy for the song “Bubblin” due to bringing his son — who had a cold — to the hospital instead, I was not surprised, for he told me that his main goal in life was to be a positive presence for his son. Unlike his own father. He impressed me back then with that kind of priority in a world full of fathers who leave their own children alone with the mother, and not supporting either of them.

So, the next time Anderson .Paak performs near where I live, I’ll buy meet-and-greet tickets, wait patiently backstage, and when it’s my turn, walk right past Bruno Mars to Anderson .Paak, extent my hand, and say, “Good to see you again, Brandon. Do you remember me?”

A Viral Menace to Society

[Editor’s Note: The following is the official transcript of an IRL (In Real Life) internet livestream which occurred on April 1, 2020. The entirety of the footage has been wiped clean from all Social Media platforms, and if any website has it uploaded for viewing, it is immediately taken down. Due to obvious legal reasons, not only has the name of the person filming the stream been changed, but the location of where it occurred in the United States will be left blank. I would like to thank the parents of the IRL Streamer who have given our publication permission to publish this transcript. They only had one condition: name their son “Idiot.”]

IDIOT: Hey, there mother******, it’s your good friend, ***** here. What’s up, playa’s? I’m just going to wait in my car here for everyone to arrive in the chatroom before I do this sh** here. 

(Idiot waits for about 10 minutes while listening to music on his car radio.)

IDIOT: Okay, we got a lot of people up in this chat. I see there’s just over two thousand of you here watching now. Cool. Okay then. This here I’m about to do is the great new internet challenge people have been doing since this stupid Covid lockdown started. The Old Normal Challenge. What it entails is simple, I go into the grocery store while livestreaming without wearing my mask, and ignore anyone who demands I put one on. And if anyone wants to donate some big coin, I’ve got my speaker on full blast, so whatever you put in the chatroom will be heard by everyone in the store. Now, come on and follow me. 

(Idiot gets out of his car. The camera faces him as he walks across the parking lot to the grocery store entrance. He passes through the automatic doors, and immediately starts walking up and down random aisles. The camera still faces him.)

IDIOT: (whispers into the camera) Well, well, I’ve walked by a few people — all wearing masks — and so far no one has said sh**. Looks like I’m going to have to up the ante in this bit**, and show you guys I got the cojonese. 

(Idiot gets near an old married couple browsing the frozen meat section. He edges himself as close as possible without them noticing, then fake-sneezes on the wife’s shoulder. The wife gasps in panic.)

HUSBAND: Hey, you f***er, don’t do that sh**. Where’s your damn mask?

IDIOT: My what? 

HUSBAND: Your mask, stupid. 

IDIOT: Mask? It isn’t Halloween, old-timer. 

HUSBAND: I’m getting a manager, you little bastard. 

(The old married couple walk away in great haste.)

IDIOT: (giggles, and whispers into the camera) That was fun. Come on guys donate, you can say some sh** when a worker gets to me. 

(Idiot moves down the aisle where the cereal is. Idiot then notices one of the managers coming toward him. He turns the camera to face the person.)

MANAGER: Sir, did you just sneeze on someone? 

(Idiot says nothing.)

MANAGER: Where is your mask, sir? You need to be wearing a mask. And you can’t be filming in the store with your phone. Not the whole time. Wait, are you doing that livestream crap? 

(Idiot says nothing. Then the speaker mounted on his shoulder sounds off a loud beep.) 

DONATOR: (in a robotic voice) Attention! C-FOUR has been successfully activated. Bomb countdown in ten seconds starting now!

(The Manager immediately turns and starts sprinting down the aisle.)

MANAGER: Everybody out! This crazy f*** with the backpack has got a f***ing bomb! Get to the nearest exit! NOW!

IDIOT: Holy sh**. Dude, I hope you donated a lot for that. I guess it’s time to leave. 

(Idiot starts walking to the front of the grocery store. When people see him they scream and sprint straight to the exit.) 

IDIOT: Man, if this place didn’t look empty before. Now it looks like the apocalypse just started ten days ago. I’d take some candy, but I don’t want to add theft to my conviction if I get arrested for this sh**. People, start donating for my bail money if I get cuffs on me. 

DONATOR: Here’s my two cents for your creativity.

IDIOT: Two pennies? I’m not asking for your thoughts. I know you gave more than that. Funny. 

(Idiot makes his way to the parking lot. He moves the camera around for his followers to see. It’s empty of people, but a male customer can be heard.) 

CUSTOMER: (distant) He just got out of the building, officer. He’s right there.

IDIOT: F***, a cop is already here. I’m gonna duck out of here. Where did I park the car? 

POLICE OFFICER: (distant) Stay where you are. Don’t move. 

IDIOT: Don’t worry, man, it was just a donation. My backpack just got my equipment for my live—

(The sound of gunfire from somewhere.) 

IDIOT: Hey, f***! I don’t got a bomb, you idiot. It was a donation! 

(Idiot ducks near a car.) 

IDIOT: Okay? It’s all fake. It’s just the Old Normal Challenge.

(More gunfire this time. Idiot takes off running to his car. Multiple more shots are fired at him.)

IDIOT: Sh**. F***. What the f***? Stop shooting! I don’t—

(More gunfire. Idiot makes it to his car, gets in, then starts engine.) 

IDIOT: Okay, everyone, looks like this is going to change into a straight up f***ing police chase. 

(Idiot begins driving through the parking lot. He removes the camera from the selfie stick and mounts it on a holder on the car’s dashboard. There’s distant gunfire heard outside over the sound of the roaring engine.)

IDIOT: Goddamnit, pig. Just don’t hit my tires. Okay, everyone start with the damn donations. Looks like not only for bail at this point, but a Johnnie Cochran lawyer. Probably a whole damn firm of them. How many of you are watching? 

DONATOR: Looks like almost twenty thousand watching.

IDIOT: All right, a new record. This’ll be worth it. Wow, more cop cars have shown up. 

(Sirens are blaring from outside the car as Idiot drives faster. The sound of tires screeching as Idiot attempts to maneuver through city streets.) 

IDIOT: Oh, f***. I could get out of this. It’s possible. But I could end up being a wanted man. So donate big time so I can be an on-the-run fugitive from the law. I can livestream from the woods — I got the equipment. Just don’t rat me out everyone, or you’d miss all the fun.

(There’s a crash so loud the sound is almost permanently lost, but is still good. The footage gets shaky, but miraculously the camera remains on the dashboard. The car was hit by a police cruiser from the side, which caused Idiot’s car to roll four times before landing on it’s wheels. Idiot is slumped out of frame for a moment, then his head rises. Blood is flowing out of his nose and mouth. He looks weak. He spits out some blood before speaking.)

IDIOT: Hope you guys enjoyed The Old Normal Challenge. 

(Idiot then passes out.)

DONATOR: Here’s 4.20 for your funeral. LOL.

An Early Midlife Crisis and The Angry Raccoon

As a good mother would ask their naughty son, "If everyone were jumping off a bridge, would you do it too?" I pondered this question the day after my 35th birthday and reminisced my father telling me at around 11 years old, "You can't make a living playing video games unless you make them as well." Wow, how times have changed in less than twenty-five years where I see young people becoming millionaires before hitting 20 years old before they can enter a bar and buy themselves a beer. I'm behind in the times, and I know it. If only the internet were what it is now when I was 15, my life would be different.

Is it jealousy? Honestly, yes. The thing is that by the time I got into my early 20's in the latter half of the early 2000s, I became a naughty child-adult, getting myself into using substances both legal and illegal (well, the illegal one is now legal in my state, but I digress) and partying like the world was going to end in one fine, painless flash. So my interest in playing video games dwindled into basic nothingness, and the fact that my Playstation 2 broke, and the original Xbox would no longer work soon after didn't help. The fact is, I gave up gaming before I even realized there were possibilities at making a living at it in front of an audience.

Two days after my 35th birthday, with a few beers in my belly, I decided to get my old Nintendo 64 out of storage in my father's garage. "Maybe I'll start one of those Twitch channels playing Super Mario 64," I thought. "Are kids these days even interested in watching a new old fart like me play it?" As I didn't bother answering these questions, I made my way to the garage's carport where my father housed the camping trailer. Behind it was a shelf he had built to house all the containers with all my various childhood goodies. I got a ladder that was hanging from the wall, stood it up, and took the steps to the shelf which had enough room on its surface for me to step onto it. As I stood bent over, moving the containers around, looking in each one to find where my Nintendo 64 was, I heard a growl. I said aloud, "Quiet, Bella," to my dog who I thought stood on the ground below looking up at my butt, wanting a treat. Then I heard another growl, and then an angry bark that kind of sounded like a pig. I immediately turned to yell at my precious Bella, but no one was there below. She wasn't around. The bark sounded again, but this time almost sounded like it came from a bear. It came from the corner of the shelf. I craned my head and saw what the sound was coming from: a fat, pregnant, angry Raccoon.

I was too drunk to panic. Too drunk to move at that moment. There are moments in our lives where it is better to be drunk than sober. If I were sober, I may have fallen off the shelf and broke my back, or screamed, moved fast towards the ladder, startling the nocturnal beast which may have caused her to bite me. But instead, all I felt like doing was playing my Nintendo 64 -- all I could think about was finding all the stars in Super Mario 64. So I simply said to the Angry Raccoon, "Look, I don't want any trouble, Little Bowser. Keep your little princesses, and have a wonderful family life. I just want to find my stars." I don't know why I used those words, but I do know the Angry Raccoon didn't attack me and let me go my way.

Am I Here? (In a Cursed Dream) [SAMPLE]

...with bloodshot eyes - and not a smidgen of THC in my body to be high - my mind was not thinking of one idea, but maybe hundreds, not heading in one tangible direction, but in far too many to count. Things in reality molded without changing, with its laws, rules, and concepts contorting not by my command, but randomly distorting due to my own distorted perception. This is not a tale of a terrible disaster, more like it's a self-destructive journey where everything is gold as I see it, and I feel completely and wholeheartedly superb while all those around me feel panicky, and maybe even scared for their lives as I attempt to find those who will guide me to my ascendence above all else in my messiah mindset. I don't know when it exactly began. Nobody who suffers a psychosis ever does; it just happens. For me, the problem was that it most likely started well before I even quit my job, a gradual build up where no spark is needed, and is more like a slow burn of a candle that is able to last nearly a year. Who the fuck knows. It's different for everybody, for every person, regardless of whether they suffer from a brain disorder or not, are like snowflakes, spending their whole lives falling from an indifferent sky, forming into something unlike their brethren surrounding them, and when they melt, they'll evaporate and start all over again when it gets cold. A lot of people don't like to think of life and death as being what I just described, but it basically is, and it's up to each individual to either deal with it, or pretend it's not true. Anyways, I guess you can say a psychosis is the peak, and mania is its slow ascendence. Though I had felt great, my time with Summer, losing my virginity, and then some (wink, wink) was part of that mania, and to be honest that time with her I'll never regret, because being in love and making love is worth it, no matter who blows their bullshit criticism in my face to my ears. I don't care. It was awesome. Even smoking all that weed was worth it, because I was happy. Doing those drugs at Comic-con and then in Las Vegas was fucking beautiful. I got to perceive the best as well as the worst of human interactions. I mean, shit, that Cowboy Billy in that Presidential Suite at the MGM Grand with his wife and four other prostitutes, and the sight of that pitcher filled with... never mind, I need to speak of the peak, the psychosis. The ones who get the most attention in the public eye - because of the media bloodhounds - are the ones who think they're the devil, or some kind of werewolf, and murder a family member, or eat a stranger, because they get it in their heads the Zombie Apocalypse has come, and they.... well, you catch my drift if you're sober. I call that the Monster Complex Psychosis, or maybe the Beast Mode Psychosis. The fuckers who suffer from those get media attention like a secretary giving a blow job to the President of the United States. I mean, it's unimportant, holding no aesthetic or conscientious building of one's own character, just bullshit tabloid entertainment for the masses who are bored out of their minds. But my own psychosis, which actually is what occurs in most cases, was what I personally call a Messiah Complex Psychosis, because I basically thought I had figured out all the worlds problems, and I found the signs in the details of my own family history, as well as misconstruing familiar and general associations which led me to believe I was the reincarnated savior of the planet to finally bring true peace to the modern era. So basically when I pass by a schizo on the street rambling on and on about the end of the world, or how the Easter Bunny stole their booze on a Saturday afternoon, I'm surprisingly proud to say, "Been there, thought almost like that," and calmly continue walking.

It began with no sleep. I wasn't getting any during the last month of the year in 2008. Even when I smoked indica weed, I didn't fall asleep to dream, but I began dreaming anyway. Everything in life led to the existence of myself, every movement of mankind and it's struggle to leave the legacy that must survive the eternity that is the result of me being alive and conscious to live, perceive, learn, and create if I so chose to. I was once alive; I know this because when I went to the country where my father was born, and visited the cemetery of my grandfather, I found his brother's tombstone, my great-uncle whom was also named Olavi Pienen. Yes, I was once alive, but now over 80 years later, I survived to perceive what the world has become, and those born before me have made that same perception easier. All that was to be believed in at that time of my existence was imagined from the beginning because no one was given the answers. The answers are in front of you the entire time; those with imagination identify what those answers are because they're never given any. At one point that evening my friend Mario and I were smoking weed in my car before going to see a movie in Century Theaters. I sat there, barely feeling euphoric, explaining all my newfound revelations and realizations regarding what our reality truly is. He sat in the car, smoking the blunt slowly, listening intently, or maybe not listening at all, thinking about the girl he was about to meet up with. I was to go see another film entirely, then meet back up with him in the car. I was saying, "Yes, we're born into this, but if we were only born before everything was defined, maybe we wouldn't have been able to develop the memory to perceive, merely exist in it, and act on the instinct of survival and the simple, but pleasurable act of procreation." Mario put out the blunt in my car's ashtray, and said, "It's time. I'm going to meet her at the entrance. You?" I uttered, "Oh." Then said, "Yes, I'll walk down with you. Get my ticket for 'Transporter.' I'll meet you here when you guys are done." He said, "Cool, man." Then we headed to the movies. The problem was I began becoming paranoid. Though it was late in the evening, and not many people were around, I felt everyone's eyes looking at me. The people were real, of course, but mere momentary glances became fierce, concerned, and fearful glares right into my eyes. I looked away every time a person was doing this to me. The only normal people were the people working at the movie theater: the person behind the glass selling the movie ticket, as well as the one tearing it up after I entered inside the theater's lobby. I made my way to the theater room where the movie was playing, and I was overwhelmed with a sense that I was in total danger, that someone knew I was going to be in there, and when I was relaxed and enthralled by the movie's content, the person would shoot and kill me, and others as well before heading to the exit. I thought to myself, I've got to prevent this horror from occurring. And I figured if I wasn't in the theater at the preordained time, I wouldn't be the first to be shot, so the horror of a mass shooting would be averted by me altering what I was going to see in the theater that very evening. So I entered another theater that was showing the film Bolt that was about an actor dog who thought he was actually the characters he was playing in the film within the films. I don't remember one seen from that movie, because my brain exploded with thoughts. My eyes were always on the big screen, but I wasn't seeing anything other than what I was thinking. I came to the realizations that my world was fake, and everyone in it were actors, and not only were they helping fake the world I lived in, they were in fact protecting me from the blind evil in this world who spent their entire lives looking for me because I was the one to bring peace to this world by the great orations I were to speak in the near future to the masses who desired my revelations and realizations. That we are in fact, each of us as individuals are the center of the universe, and we are our own God, who produce our children's own ability to be their own God....blah, blah, blah. My eyes were wide, both white and bloodshot. The weed no longer had effect on me. Shit, imagine if I were on cocaine at the time, but luckily I had no interest in the white powder. Later, when the movie was over I was walking down the theater's hallway I heard Mario call from behind me, "Olavi, you liked it?" His arm was around the girl he was hanging out with. I replied, "It's all fake." I kept running my hand over my devilock flat atop my head. Mario said, "Yep, the dog didn't realize it." I then said, "Like everyone else on this planet." As I waited for Mario to stop talking to his lady friend I sat in my car listening to Slayer's Angel of Death on my car's stereo, I had suddenly come to the realization that horror was still possible in that theater, so I left my car and headed back to it. I found a place at the corner of the building, and as I lit myself a cigarette, I looked up at the building's address number displayed high on it's wall: 155. I thought, The number's equal eleven. I died on the eleventh day in August back in Finland almost eighty years ago. I must be alive now to prevent people's death here. I got my cellphone out, and dialed 911. After a few minutes I realized it didn't ring, and there was no answer. Then there was a beep on the other line, and it hung up on me...