by RRRoze

 

Hanging Around the House

 

            We can’t keep a butler. I won’t allow it. I am going to see how long it will take- using filth and dust and garbage and moisture- to rot out the walls and load bearing structures of this home. I want to do a controlled demolition experiment over the course of my life. One day I will inherit this mansion and when that day comes the East Wing had better not be here.

I take shots at those butlers. I don’t need them. I don’t want them. I don’t want this. I am so bored of this, but the situation is really what makes any sense. Seriously, my father insists on binding a certain number of the Daggers to this location specifically to aide me. I want the west wing and the central areas for myself. And the yard, too. I want to forget about the way I’ve been stuck over here avoiding the Daggers. Roaming among material desires gets boring so quickly. I’ve come to love learning and to love killing; it’s what I do.

The people around me do exactly what I tell them when I tell them so it has become impossible to befriend them because I don’t respect them. Faces and stories and lessons and fear. These people are delivery boys. Or lunatic volunteers. Basically, whoever wants to tend to the phenomena of I.

I haven’t seen my father in a couple months, but he always has spectacular weapons brought to me. The bigger I get, the bigger the guns I get get. I’m finally blowing apart the walls with an Italian made semi automatic shotgun instead of the boring old .22′s. This is separate from the cache pact. The cache pact is exactly what it sounds like and occurs in the event of my father’s untimely demise.

I wander through the living shadows and dead dust of the west wing from one enormous room filled with spectacular distractions to another. The old school arcade is filled with glowing and fabulous interactive machines and the new school halls are lined in enormous plasma screens with every video game ever created. Not that it matters. I am more of an animal lover. There is a zoo in the basement and side yard and I’ve got alligators and snakes, scorpions, a lion, crows, bats, wolverines, and some other animals, too. They’re taken care of by the Dagger People.

I’ve given the animals names. The three alligators are stooges. My lion is Murdock. So on and so forth. The emperor scorpions are Jeanie, Samantha, Major Nelson and Shaft. The birds are all pin up girls. Reptiles are people like Shirley Temple and Charlie Chaplin.

Animals are nice and there’s other things on the second floor, too; rides and various neat cultural amusements- like voodoo dolls and didgeridoos- my father sends home from the places he goes to. The entire east wing is rigged with a system of ropes to represent vines. I spend days and weeks being Tarzan. Because George of the Jungle has a vagina.

This isolation is changing tomorrow. I’m on my way to school for the first time. Until now I’ve always had various tutors from the east wing but now I am going out in the world. Because someone, I don’t know who, has decided it is time for me to be around other children. Probably an idiot politician.

I don’t know what to expect. I haven’t left the property since I got back from the hospital. And that was probably a year ago. So I mean. I’m watching South Park on the television because it’s my favorite show. I’ve got a slurpee from my private machine and a I’ve got a smile. But, if you came close enough to me I would stab you in the gut and run away. If you followed, I would shoot you. This is because I want to. I will kill you myself within the whisper of a thought. It happens. This is politicos are panicking. They’re trying to make a gesture of good faith. They don’t yet know what I can do with my intentions. Dagger people send civilians to me be sacrificed. Trust me when I say this; I will not do anything other than what I desire. There is nothing you or anyone else in the world can do to protect yourself from the Dagger People. And the Dagger People answer to me. They are with me.

My name is Richie Richie Rage. I live somewhere in Texas. Keep away from me.

Or better yet, keep away from Texas.

Oh. I’ve been wandering around dictating this and I have come upon the kitchen in a state of disarray. I keep this room clean and stocked for obvious reasons, but the refrigerator is lying on it’s side. There are multicolored puddles of spilled food and drink amassed on the black and white tile. There is a crater of splintered black painted wood where some cabinets and counter tops used to be. The bull I let out must have gotten spooked while it was in here. There is a shotgun loaded with high velocity slugs in the corner and it’s time to hunt this weeks dinner for the resident Dagger people in the east wing. I don’t want to talk about this and you don’t need to hear about it. They tell me tomorrow will be a big day and someone suggested I keep this audio diary. I’ve introduced myself. You should know me well enough by now.

 

Waiting For The Bus

 I’ve woken up early in preparation for this school thing and now have a few minutes before the bus arrives. The haze is out today. That hot wet haze you see rising on grassland at this time of morning. I popped off a few shots out of my .22 revolver and saw the crows fly away. Things are very peaceful here. I’m down the long hill from the house. Yonder off I can hear the Dagger people moving around and tending to daily affairs of Dagger life- steel clanking and dull monotone shouting. Every half an hour or so a Dagger helicopter thumps past overhead and it is going by now. As for me, I’ve decided I want the entire elementary school experience. If I am going to humor this diplomatic request in order to bypass a war- one I’d win without any contest, by the way- I am also going to humor myself for the day or two it takes for me to get bored. And yes, the entire state of Texas might be my hostage but I’m hoping that won’t make things awkward between me and my potential school friends.

Talking to you is somewhat boring for me. Self reflection is the dagger you cut yourselves with and look at me here indulging. I apologize for not experiencing humanity. I abandoned sobriety about ten minutes ago when I smoked that marijuana joint. You got me. RRRage smokes doobies. Reefers… I figure you deserve to know these things about me after everything I’ve put you through. Even I am not comfortable with the way things happened between us. I wasn’t real then. I was still part of the spirit. My father, though… I guess he started it. All I do is hang around this compound. But pops is out there turning the world’s indigenous people into Dagger’s. He had his reasons for focusing mainly on that demographic. As for me, I’ll be taking it to the suburbs when my day comes. That day has not come however and I do not wish to get ahead of myself…

Let’s talk some about my origin. I was born in the Black Hills of South Dakota. At the deepest geological point people have ever reached. I wasn’t even part of the third dimension until they dug me up. I had the mind of a mineral deposit. I was in mica for Christ’s sake. I know I shouldn’t be here. You people made the wrong decision and I am what you chose, I am what happened when you introduced a consciousness like mine to synthetic dark matter; I am what happened when you failed to monitor your scientists. You made me and you can blame Steven Potter and the man who became my father, Keller Voyt. Didn’t you ever even think to monitor your scientists?

Trust me when I say this is embarrassing for both sides. The allies aren’t blood thirsty by nature but I am. So I promise the Dagger people will be gone with my passing. Though, we will not know for certain until I witness the effects of my father’s passing. The theory is our deaths should exterminate our influence over your world with us. Hence, no more Daggers. Still, my passing is going to be on my terms and not yours. I know you’ll get used to this idea. Or not. Hell if I care.

Because, listen, I could dig up that hole again. I could have my source once again extracted from hell. We could make more dark matter and voila, more of us. I can do whatever I want and you can’t stop me. But I don’t want more of me. I have no desire to aid the continuity of ‘my species.’ That’s a third dimensional thing. And on the bright side, those living in the foreseeable future will never know what it is to live in an overpopulated world. So yay…. We have a way of thinning out your herds apparently.

Unpleasantness aside, I want us to be friends. You and me. I could use someone who will listen to what I have to say. I can tell you about what it’s like to be me. You don’t even have to like me because we know nobody does. And that is what makes sense.

If you are living in the distant future- and I am long dead- and they’ve started the date back at zero- I want you to know about who I was. And about the way the world was before me. Before me there was war. You live in peace. Sometimes you have to make something hurt as bad as it possibly can if you want the pain to go away. Or maybe you’re reading this a month from now and still sleeping with one eye open. That’s ok, too.

About me? I’m four foot six inches and going into the fifth grade today. The allies- inorganic life most of you can’t even see that gusts and howls through this world on the wind- affectionately call me short stack. Allies are what dwells within the Dagger People. I don’t think that’s common knowledge actually. I know it though. And now so do you. So of course they are a big part of my life. The allies acquiesce my every desire for they know that only through me can they experience the powers of this dense realm. Essentially they snatch the bodies I leave for them. Genocide and slaughter everywhere goes through my mind first. Or, for now, through my father’s mind.

We have a fairly simple system going on but the particular lineages become… stale… quickly so they are always trying to get more High Daggers out of me. And I of course oblige. Or maybe it is I who wants more regular Daggers. I mean, it would make sense for them to create more of themselves, but the allies don’t really care in the same way I do. It’s not characteristic of them. I want though. And mine and the allies’ destinies and desires are intertwined in that way.

And even though we don’t speak, I know my Father is out doing what I’d be doing. He is my Father because of what he did to create me. Heinous Henry, formally Keller Voyt, is the only other one of me alive. The mica poisoned his lungs and by synthetic means that person became the man my father is. His identity became the same identity I have. The same anguished mind of a hot stone vibrating like screaming electric guitars.

There was a hero who closed off that hole in South Dakota, and maybe I’ll tell you that story someday, but before the hole closed my father had taken a pregnant woman down there. I am that baby. I know not of the woman. I know my birth came on the dawn of a new era and I am here to show you what that era will be.

I kind of get lonely out in open spaces like here though. A big part of me is confined to places with shadow and there are no dark forests here. I need walls. If it weren’t for the allies I would be truly alone. Dagger’s are unsettling to my nerves because they remind me too much of people. Allies are calming spirits. Calming to me….

In its proper natural form inorganic life is quite pleasant. To me at least. Except- unless I drastically shift my awareness- I can only meet them in the shadows and in the dark. Inorganic life is comforting presences that are invisible. Or they or very much real depending on a certain shift that occurs in my awareness. If I am in the right state of mind, you might suddenly find yourself in a crowd of merciless heathens at the shopping mall. Not unlike a prison riot. Or hell, maybe you can watch some beautiful women with me. It really depends on my mood.

Oh, well. The allies can poke fun all they want. Short stack…? I feel no use for height. My situation has little to do with how many hoops I can shoot. I do like pancakes though. I should tell you more about myself. So… what I look like is this; I’ve got black hair and pale skin. Green eyes. Nothing about me is mutated. Or mutilated for that matter. My cheeks are like a chipmunks and I kind of have buck teeth. I wear black clothes. Articles that are practical for a cat burglar or a guerrilla warrior. A red bandana sits across my forehead to keep my hair out of my face.

Actually, speaking of red, I do aspire to join the street gang Bloods. I respect them. I met one before and I appreciated his values. Family, gang life, murder, rape, shootouts, and car chases. Very cool to me. I think they will serve a frivolous desire of mine and I will give them fame, fortune, riches, power, and control. There is a good chance that when I die, the Bloods will be facilitating this planet.

Besides senseless acts of destruction and murder or ‘sacrifice,’ I enjoy getting whiplash swinging around on my ropes. I got them coated in this light rubber kind of material. So swinging is a hobby you could say. I am a fan of whiplash.

The bus is rolling toward me from the distance. It’s a big atrocious yellow thing barreling down the dirt road, kicking up dust, just like on the television. I’m trying to think of some way to mess with these people without being too vile. But I’m drawing a blank. I can simply kill the children, kill the bus driver, go back to bed, and let the Daggers have the bodies.

Except I was thinking something more like a prank, and I’ve never been a prankster is the problem. I am more into explosives than jokes. And as much as I enjoy doing what I do, there really isn’t anything funny about my life. I guess I’ll keep going with this audio diary when I get done with this school debacle.

 

Somewhere In A Wall

            The air is draftier where I am. Not surprisingly I’ve ended up hiding away. This after having been alone on the bus ride. They couldn’t get any children to ride with me. Also, for whatever reason, the Australian scientist from the hospital drove me. I went all the way into Houston to this downtown pit; a school built with crumbling materials.

I’ve never been to a place so crowded; the humans keep a perimeter of fear from me at about a twenty foot radius. The sixth grade girls are whores. Same goes for seventh and eighth grade ones. The things they do with their eyes are strange. They obviously want to kiss me. Boys are much more fearful. Most scurry away into the classrooms. Everyone is aware of me. I don’t blame them. They all know my face from their nightmares. And from television. Like there’s a difference!

I’ve found a decent sized hiding space here in the auditorium. Hidden behind a maroon stage curtain there was a short ladder built into the wall and this room was behind a midget sized unlocked door. Pipes, cement, and safety lighting. A faint scent of urine lingers at one corner. The walls have scuff marks from snuffed out cigarettes.

The allies are agitated; glowing reds and oranges and rushing around and seemingly through each other. Their glow is pulsating and telling me to be on edge. This explains the wind that has become of the draft.

“Is there something nobody has told me?”

* White noise blocks sound

They’ve become blue. They’re reacting to my father’s death.

The employees of this school have been calling around for me. Probably checking around seats. Adults are so blissfully unaware of their surroundings. They don’t get it. It’s arrogance and ego. Maybe they’re in denial. Harmful to their health finding me will be. These circumstances would have seemed ludicrous to people living twelve years ago.

The translation of my father’s Lakota name is Ender Of Power. The Lakota believe my father is the spirit punishing white men for the deeds they had done against their people.

I theorize most organic humans never function in oneness. Not anymore at least. And that is the way in which human beings are different than every other form of life on this planet.

There are literally no Lakota Sioux left in the world anymore. They were the first Dagger people and they are the most powerful Daggers as a result. Even the Sioux children became Daggers, and they will grow into adults and die like any other life form.

The most powerful allies came into this world first and the Sioux were honored in that way. Those first Daggers rained down genocide from the heavens in the United States.

And I don’t believe the Dagger people are identifying with the history of the Lakota Sioux, the Sioux are gone and Daggers could never be them. It was more of an elastic snap with that situation. In the end genocide causes more genocide, one way or another. But, when you watch a Lakota Dagger reaping souls, you can kind of see a twinkle in their eye. Like even their blood was seeking vengeance.

But, yeah, what I was going to say.

12 years ago the circumstances here in this school would have seemed odd to you. You would be wondering why there is no military presence. Or police presence. Government security. Or anything like that. We all know why that is. Good ol’ dad knows what’s best. I was a bewildered infant when Heinous Henry created a world with no armies. No police. No government. No anything. And yet, somehow, there are still politicians telling people how to survive and doing more harm than good.

The minor uprisings these politicians- or religious leaders as is often the way I see it- the minor uprisings they cause really resemble mass suicides more than anything. Resistance is futile. They should be running. Nobody should be near me. They should be getting as far away as possible.

I guess they don’t get it.

Have you ever wondered where you go when you die? It’s the dream world.

And what the fuck? I’m alone now? The allies have gone. The spirit is going to speak.

I can hear people calling for me.

An ally whispers some random persons words to me, “RRRage! Your father is dead! Your father, RRRage! He’s dead!” they call out.

“Choke the life from that person shouting.”

An ally is here now before me as a man in dark green guerrilla clothes wearing a black ski mask. “It’s a child,” he says.

“Fine. Bring him here.”

In a second from now…

My ally posse threw this child into the room with me. He has wavy blonde hair and is of moderate fear; his eyes are geared into the cement floor. He’s in gym clothes, black shorts, white t-shirt, and white sneakers.

“Hey. Who told you my father’s dead?”

“It’s on the news in all the rooms. Everyone’s really happy and hugging.”

“What do you think about it?”

“I don’t know. They just sent me to look for you. I volunteered.”

“Heinous Henry is dead and you don’t know what you think? How do you think I feel?” He’s finally looked up at me. I add, “Hey, you’ve got soft eyes.”

“You don’t feel things, I heard,” he said.

“Yeah. That’s right. Listen to me. I’m going to tell you my plan for the next ten minutes. I’m going to do one of two things, ok? I’m either going to kill you, leave you a dead bloodless carcass right there, and then exterminate every man, woman, and child in this building and this city. Or I’m going to let you live and you’re going to come with me while I exterminate these people. You have to choose. I have to go pay tribute to the death of the single other like me, and then I’m going to begin a new way of life. What’s your choice? I’d like to keep you alive as a souvenir of how things used to be.”

“I don’t want to die. I guess I’ll do what I have to.”

“Ha. You guess? Don’t choke you little bastard. What’s your name?”

“I’m Seth.”

 

Mobile Aftermath

            There’s something about the sight of a sprawling city burning to the ground in a rear view mirror. Skyscrapers glow like candles. The dark smoke travels west on the breeze. I found myself a Miada with the top down. Texas sun glistening. Houston is in ruins.

I haven’t seen this since Rapid City after we demolished Mount Rushmore. I was young when that happened; gazing out the rear view from the back seat. This is better. That was like a hymnal acoustic thing and this is like thrashing electric guitars. What you can’t hear is the antimatter. Through death comes the antimatter. Through me comes death. Through me… I am connected to that back there. Houston will be a Dagger city now. Like how Dagger’s come through other Daggers, to become High Daggers they come straight through me.

Guess what happened to Seth. He’s dead, I killed him. Dropped him out of the sky to be specific. No!! I’m totally joking! He’s right here. Semiconscious, but he’ll be ok. He’s my bargaining chip. You keep listening to this diary and he’ll stay alive. If I so much as get a feeling you are looking away from the things I have to say then Seth will die.

Listen. Seth means a lot to me… in this situation… He’s going to make a hell of a guerrilla someday. I require a consultant with organic human feelings. It’s a great big world out there. I’m interested to see if he’ll lose his humanity. I don’t want to see him dead. He’s looking at me. Poor bastard can’t even move his head. His chin’s coated in dry vomit.

As for me I’m going to crack a beer and see what happens. One of the most omnipotent things I have seen in my life is the link between spirit, the planet, the dead, the allies, and myself. Everything is this spirit. It’s fuzzy oneness.

Following me is a faint rumble- like the lower tones of fire amplified. Houston is burning like gasoline, but as for what is happening, that is a completely different story.

I need to maneuver around vehicles that aren’t moving. They have come to complete stops on or a little off the road. The drivers are dead. There’s a pickup upside down about 120 yards off in a pasture. That’s the allies doing this. That’s what they do. The allies are the most ruthless killers this planet has ever seen. Which, of course, is my fault. I can take the blame for that.

That’s nothing though, when you see what Gaia does. The Earth Mother is all over me.

Right now there is a pending critical mass. Clouds are moving through the sky in a disorientating way; the direction of the wind is shifting in powerful currents. The smoke of the burning city dances. Rain will fall on Houston. This will cause thunderstorms that will kill many in the outlying areas. Here is why; as the dead rise the allies will rejoice and cause the storm to grow exponentially like a recurring equation. A dry hurricane will be on us in a matter of minutes.

“Seth, wake up. Watch the storm come in.” I tapped him with a bottle of water. He needs to drink something; been vomiting on and off for the past couple hours.

“What storm?”

“Look behind you.”

There’s electricity beginning to crackle over the Houston sky. That deep growl you hear is a particularly ominous thunder. I’m punching the accelerator. The tree lines in the distance tear from their roots and fly through the sky in a twisting sort of single file.

What happens next is an onslaught of indistinguishable apparitions. These apparitions thrive on the otherworldly environment of these storms and they choose to reflect the lives of the dead in their ‘faces,’ so to speak. One single ally will display dozens of character portrayals in a single second. At times like this they want to experience the most organic moments they possibly can.

“These are the dead, Seth!”

Oh shit, lightening!

*Explosions of sound followed by distorted laughter. Wind. Explosions- presumably more thunder. More laughter.

Ok. This is what is happening now: The allies have enveloped our vehicle in a protective cocoon of white light. It is really quite pleasant. Meanwhile, the storm is still uprooting every house along the highway.

“You like this Seth?”

“This is unreal! This can’t be real! The cows!”

“You’re comfortable right?”

“I don’t like heights!”

“Really. You want to feel what it’s like to fly?”

“Oh god, RRRage. No!” He’s pleading for his life…

Send him for a ride! Aaah! Ha ha ha! They got him flying around among an airborne trailer park, leaving lightening and fire in a shimmering flickering wake! This is why life is worth living! Alright, get him back in here!

“You need a shower Seth. You smell like shit. Don’t worry. We’ll set a course for home. You can get clean. And don’t worry; it’s my own fault I’ve got to smell you. Oh, damn! You’re covered in blood!”

“Why are you doing this to me?” He cries.

“We’re going to be friends Seth. You and me.”

 

The Cache Pact

            My father’s death has affected very little. There’s a certain automatica of response between me and the environments’ heeding to my wishes. In the world at large his plans are clearly going to be carried out. It’s not over for anyone. Not yet. Not for a long time.

We’ve rounded most USA citizens into the worst places of their specific regions. We sent them out to sea or drove them into swamps. We burnt them in the deserts or abandoned them on mountain summits.

Some cities will be chosen to remain. I haven’t decided which. Most cities will be kept vacant as sanctuaries for the animals they initially drove out of their habitats. A trade off to some degree.

Well… The truth is a little uglier. There was a prediction I chose to ignore about specific hazards to the ecosystem. Consequences that- now coming back into thought- I’ll actually reconsider. Belittling mankind for it’s wrongs isn’t worth killing Bambi and all his friends. I’ll stop the torture when it gets out of hand. You should see the migrations though. I watch them from satellites. The allies show up like distortions in the screens. By the end of that walk, those organic people will be Daggers dispersing across the countryside. Seattle down to Mexico. We’ll keep Mexico pure. They’ve suffered long enough. These are the new realities of my Father’s absence. So on and so forth.

Upon arriving back home that day of my father’s death I found the Dagger’s congregated on a hill in the distance on the grounds of the first co-property.  I could see them from the parking lot. That was what I first noticed. I was no longer obligated to be near them. They will always depend on me and I will always respect them but I have better things to do than personally create more High Daggers; regardless that they want them. I especially have better things to do than to socialize with the Daggers.

That’s not all true. A Dagger from my own hands is a profoundly significant event. When the allies kill someone, I have no physical connection to that corpse; the ally doing the killing does. Death at my own hands is entirely different. Blood on my hands is a literal gateway from the dark matter of outer space, through the iron crystal at the center of the earth, through all the iron in this world, through my blood, and into the blood of the dead. The allies inject themselves into that process by hitching in the dark matter. A Dagger kills a man, injects an ally and the reactive dark matter into the corpse, and another Dagger is made.

Currently they’re branching out according to the distribution of High Daggers. Especially my father’s old High Dagger’s. They came to me by direct transportation and are staying out at Corpus Christi. They’ll be controlling my armada. They’re multitalented, to say the least.

Seth is still kicking around this life. He and I leisurely escaped the energy storm from my last entry thanks to a vehicle powered by inorganic life forms and protected by an energetic force field.

Mother Earth has been somewhat more animated since you introduced dark matter into her heart. I never hear the end of it from her. Turbulence and more turbulence. I can’t even fly in planes. Things for me are backward up in the sky- the radiation from the sun is too powerful for allies to be present- and someone could clip me in an instant. So that’s my weakness. But, as to whether or not history will ever see me abducted by organics and thrown into the sky to be done away with airborne style; my currency is on that not happening.

Seth, um, lost his hand. That time I had the allies throw him out into the energy storm he sustained an injury. A piece of flying shrapnel clipped him and left a disaster at the end of his left wrist. I figured the allies would have protected him better, but his hand was injured badly. They had to remove it. The allies knew I wouldn’t care much. They were just having a little fun.

While Seth was getting the wound taken care of out in the zookeeper’s quarters, I roamed the west wings for the first time in my life. The high white stone walls were immaculately clean. The marble floors shined. The long hall ways smelled of varnished wood. The lighting was atrociously bright. I could see every speck of dust around me. Not that there was much dust. But I had to break out a light-bulb with a bullet just to get a shadow and call for an ally to send a Dagger to get the hall lights turned red. I mean. I didn’t need the shadow, but that’s the best way to be sure they’re listening.

The biggest news is the cache pact, of course.  Yes, I was given self-sustaining armories. And I was given armadas. The finest ships in the world belong to me. Yes, I have access to military vehicles and all the trained man power I could ever need…. still…. Yes, I have a set of strata-born pulse devastators. And nuclear bombs! None of that matters.

Within the vault, in the deepest hidden reaches of this house, I found everything Henry would have ever had to tell me. There were instructions for contacting the Zeta Riticuli. Those aliens are aware of my life and they are in support. People don’t realize, or give me credit for, the service I’m providing. There is a karmic reaction to an event such as myself. They bitch now but will be worshiping me when I’m gone.

I also found a folder containing the name and whereabouts of my mother. Apparently the woman has been existing off the radar until now. I also discovered Seth is my twin brother. That may seem like an outrageous coincidence to you, but you should remember that supernatural forces are constantly at work behind the scenes. So this is the reason Seth had foster parents. This woman, in human life, was our real mother. Her name is Holly Killingworth, I shit you not. Now they just call her Killingworth.

Seth didn’t take the news very well. He’s kind of a closed off little fucker, but that will change. He’s just confused. He thought his parents were his real parents…. He doesn’t know whether to be envious or afraid or what. Even if he could be like me he would have to leave behind most of himself, much like dying. And nobody in their right mind wants to be a Dagger. From an organic human stand point living alongside me is somewhat of a betrayal to his kind. But he doesn’t understand those things. Children are very stupid at his age. He does however find it strange that he be allowed to live while so many others die. It’s made him somewhat melancholic. He’ll come out of his shell soon.

Sometimes he even comes out from under his rock. That’s a zodiac reference. We were born with the sun in Scorpio. Down in that hole on the Day of the Dead. Leo Rising. The implication I will explain is that twins swap the sun and rising traits between each other and the Leo is much in effect with me. As you might be able to tell. The implications are staggering…. If only I’d been a Virgo. Maybe things would be different. Maybe not. Probably not. I can respect his sentiments. But I didn’t expect keeping him alive to be such a drag.

He’ll come out of it. I bring him up beers when I can. He’s staying in the main guest suite. The allies bring us beautiful Dagger strippers from the most ethnic points of several exotic locations. Hawaiians, Swedes, Asian school girls just a few years older than us, Mexicans, and the most beautiful American girls next door. We haven’t even gone through puberty yet. The anticipation of reaching sexual maturity is what moves me from one day to the next. When I start getting erections you won’t see me for months at a time. I’m going to be banging inorganic strippers all day, every day. I reckon I’ll be all over them organic girls, too. I am interested to learn what love is. I have not yet begun to love….

I have aided Seth in attaching a small and effective chainsaw to his wrist. The weapon runs off of an electric cell and is very efficient. He’s no threat to me. Allies wouldn’t let anything happen. My father died because his heart gave out. They couldn’t protect him.

            My plan is to go to our Mother’s compound at the Florida Keys to meet her. We’ll see what’s what. I’m done with Texas for a while. They can die now. This state will be 100% Daggers by the time we get where we’re going.

 

Snow On The Bayou

 

            We helped a blind man across the street and after that we shot him in the legs. Seth was like, “Ha! Ha! Now you’re blind and you’ll never walk again.” He’s become a lot like me. I guess I broke him.

We wander out into the refugee towns and pretend we’re any typical kids; killing silently when we decide to. As in, we kill them within that certain region; the survivors smartly staying somewhat beyond reach. Then we wander back out into the swamps.

We cut in on a steel canoe guided and propelled by the allies. My Father’s Dagger’s within distant earshot on orders to be silent. We’re here to enjoy this and enjoy ourselves; quieting the wildernesses again. I’ve always wanted to see this place. Experience the natural sounds of the owls and the insects cutting through the trees.

Deep in the swamp we’re consumed by this hard wood growth; the canoe wake sloshing among the tree trunks. Alligators peak at us every here or there. We’re about the right size food for some of those reptiles to devour. A solitary small brown owl has been following us around this afternoon. He flits about; curious and attracted to something in the woods. Us?

The peace of the swamp is remarkable. The sky through the treetops is darkly overcast. Moist air wafts like billows into your face; warmly. We drank up mimosas and I played pirate games with Seth, who is a child, remember. We claim the floating corpses in either of our names as though they are real estate. Later, if we please, there will be two new armies of Daggers ‘round these parts. It will be his claims against mine in a battle to the death to determine whether or not he is more observant than I. If you’ve ever watched your children survey their surroundings for points of interest, then you will know Seth is quite good at spotting dead bodies. Whereas I play the game passively. His swamp army can defeat my swamp army. Why would I care? I do like the game. The Allies will make it happen for us.

In the next town we rob the store keeper for his fresh donuts. Then we display fits of anger and mock rage that there aren’t any frosted ones or any powdered ones and shoot up the store with what’s under our trench coats. We riddled the glass, register, and the shelves with bullets. As if donuts could ever matter so much.

Seth hops onto the counter right close to the back of the man’s head with the chainsaw whirling and the survivor turns to run but goes into a wall only to live no longer when he mistakenly throws his own brain-stem back into the chain saw.

“Convenience store donut hick creep,” I said standing among the quick store ruins. Seth’s chain saw winding down.

“His name was Lincoln,” Seth says; staring at the body.

“That’s patriotism. Bet they ain’t sorry ‘bout being americans, eve’ to this day. If we asked the donut creep if he’s got some love for america, he’d kill himself the same way that girl did about Jesus in the Columbine story. Pride comes before the fall. Fuck the united states. They think I’m bad but never once looked at them warmongering selves in a mirror.”

“What do I know about a Columbine story? Public school, ‘member?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Still. He ain’t helpin’ nobody by dyin’! He coulda fed a lost kid or somethin!”

“Hey!” Seth said. “Do you feel these mosquito’s?”

“No.” I say this jokingly, “I feel the brushes of them squashing in a silent pulsation of ether and hear the ‘tink’ as them bugs hit the ground. We took a boat up 50 miles of canals and we’re in a swamp town, Seth. In a swamp! Bugs. Wait. You want allies to take care of your bugs, too?””

He looks at me like I’ve whispered a favor from God. And if I were him I would think that, also. After: the allies set to keeping bugs off of him, too; with little pulses and poofs of electricity like tiny fireworks.

There’s still places like this town, though. Plenty of them. And grocery stores, too, like that quick stop. They sell whatever they can. There’s a lot of starvation obviously. And I’m fine with that. Dagger’s got operations to fix most dead bodies. They catch most cases of starvation before permanent damage occurs anyhow- if they’re so inclined. Maybe not out in this place, though. The point is, ‘the more Daggers the better.’

We left the store.

When you go to these places, the people know there is no such a thing as good gunfire anymore. The other reason we are even here is because we know there is a heavy organic concentrations out here in the swamps eating up the wildlife. I hate that so much. People should be vegetarians. There are way too many human animals for them to be eating non-human animals. Or there were way too many. The connotation attached to each death of a human food animal constantly makes me feel as though I haven’t done something right.

As for survivors? Those people will flee into each other and keep moving North.

No one left around here. One more corpse lying out by the gas pump. I have to do a thing first.

            *The recorder falls to the ground. RRRage says, “You are Snow, the Benefactress of Bayou.” The recorder is jostled as it’s lifted. Only the noise of Cicadas follows *

Snow be our lovely Dagger slave we got from a little young womanly thing I spotted hiding under a raised root system and up to her shoulders in water. She a lovely lil’ Cherie. But she a Dagger lil’ Cherie now.

“Dry flies for dinner, Seth. Predator satiation. We can eat our fill of these little bugs, and so can everything else round here. Then the survivors will breed in peace. That’s no different than Daggers an’ th’allies an people. Allie emerge from a dead Dagger… the Dagger come from the dead ta begin with… the dry fly shell goes back to been dead… the ally goes back to their place. What would I be like as a dry fly? Snow! Over here! Orchestrate a dry fly feast! I want em Cajun! Lots of beer! She on that?”

“Yeah. She’s on that. If you were a dry fly you’d be the last dry fly breathing.”

“You’d be second to last, Seth.”

The Sun’s going down. Still light, mostly light before still night, mostly night.

Get a meal by darkness, prepared well courtesy of a generous country homestead, be eating real food this night. These bugs don’t come around but for once every however many years. Seven, I thunk.

Maybe I’ll stick around till morning en en travel back to da armada. Maybe we’ll leave ta go back affer dinner. Maybe sleep be in order. Maybe a party in order… With Dagger women en ally dancers. Drug abuse? Oh yes. We can use en abuse dem drugs tru deeze canals. Send da guides away en get lost. Awesome idea. I’ll refuse to call a helicopter just to fuck with Seth. Voila. We’ll be in the Keys before we’re even lucid and after a lil’ jokin. Think I’ll call in the mimes from their perimeter to gnash. Scratch that. They can make they own dry fly feast. The mimes are my Father’s Daggers, they don’t talk except sign and mime. All Dagger’s speak sign language.

 

Genocidal Tripping

 

Sun setting aboard the Texas- a battle ship I recommissioned- out in the open gulf of oil, with the armada beyond me, outta sight in every direction; Seth and I watch a barge floating nearby from about midway up on the viewing deck; fresh tripping on LSD.

Dead calm water stretches and shines in the sun sinking at our backs; casting golden rays on the iron barge rocking in the waves. A 12 foot no man’s land stands between fifty miles worth of swamp Daggers packed into either end of the barge; naked, confused, and eager. Men, women, even kids. The allies love this sort of thing.

Staring directly through the blinding sunset the allies hover; watching the battle from across the way from us. They’re spirited essence swirls like a living galaxy; visibly ultraviolet in the golden sunlight. Seth is holding the pistol, giving me a funny look. I nod at him and glance to the gun.

The bullet blows the world up and in layers cosmic echoes course across the waves and ripple. Euphoric body highs course through my nerves. The cries and screams are cries and screams of monsters in pain; dirty dead Daggers tearing each other limb from limb. They bite at throats and the bones snap similar to the gun shot. As if we’re bubbles in a carbonated drink; all shook up. There’s white noise singing like whales behind all the screaming, and the water wiggles like that same zen motion the kids with autism love.

Seth is wearing a captain’s dark leather cape over a black and white striped shirt and cheering for the democrats. The cards are stacked against him; we all know how vicious republicans had to be to get the way they are.

“You should have never put faith in politics!”

“Why do you say that?” Seth says.

“Politics was a virus detracting from the health of humanity.”

“Oh.”

They’re tossing the dead and dismantled corpses overboard. I reflect on misery. I see it everywhere and never feel it. How do I feel things? No one feels things like me. I walk to the other side of the deck to stare into the sun. Seth is behind me transfixed on the action.

“No one feels like me. No one feels things like me.”

The effect of the violence and the LSD is to my back, emanating toward the sun. The star burning life into this world. Fueling growth. Energizing my face the same way it would yours. That is exactly what an organic man would see. At least for a moment. Soon enough there’s allies in my eyes with UV filters to catch the damage. I can watch this thing much better than you can. Damn it all. I’ll never be like you. There is nothing about me like you; besides my form.

I’ve got a brother. That’s human. My brother is what I have in common with the humans. No. He’s more like me than them. My eyes are the same as their eyes. No. False. My eyes tell all facets of existence. Or show it, excuse me. My eyes always say something different. Their eyes show fear. Nothing ever but fear. Except for Seth.

I move back to my Brother as he’s shouting obscenities at the melee.

“Hey Big T! Big T! Rip his fucking eyes out!”

That’s cute.

“Hey! Hey!” he’s saying. “Hey! The Republicans aren’t gunna make it. My Democrats went crazy on them and your republicans started playing dead! They’re fucking eating them!”

“Then they’re demigods, too…” I muttered that.

The democrats are eating republicans. Tearing away limbs; using rusty hunks of barge for cutting and hacking. The allies are dancing and whistling around the pain bubbles. The cosmic pulse waves emanating from the air glow with colors of infrared and ultraviolet; the most intense hues molding to the forms of pain moving through this atmosphere of the dead; of LSD and me.

“L! S! D! And Me!”

We watch for a glorious moment the feeding. Even the allies become as calm as the quiet. We hear the ravenous sound of cannibalistic devouring. The warring is over and now they feed. They eat… I am vaguely intrigued. We watch the carnage until the democrats wander back to their corner. They’re either satiated, lying in recovery, or leaving their carcasses behind as they bleed out.

“The allies are dispersing. What did you think of that, Seth?”

“It felt like when you burned down Houston. And my fake family and my friends died. Only this time I don’t care.”

“You know they were not your friends. There are no friends. There are just enemies so vile you think you love them. Family brings you into this world kicking and crying. Another person to destroy and consume. If you cannot have friends then neither shall I. I shall just have one brother.”

“Yeah. I like that. Me too. I will just have one brother, too.”

 

 

Torching The Armada

 

Off the coast of a far western Key in southern Florida’s Keys we’ve filled the armada with personnel from all 12 branches of law enforcement from the region. Control freaks. Every last one of them. They are still human and more or less alive; many wearing crumbling uniforms. They’ve been being held in high school auditoriums for the past couple weeks. Starving. Praying for death. I hear those prayers. The allies tune me into the good ones. Isn’t that sad for them? Their prayers go to me, of all beings…

‘Nurture the souls of my family,’ is common. They wish for my death; pouring their hatred into me. You would call the feeling exhilarating. Personally, I feel empty without the influx of others’ ire.

Haven’t been on this sandy dune long. The impending display took a few hours to arrange but it was the first thing we ordered when we arrived. And while we’ve been waiting we are enjoying the finer things in life.

The Dagger’s out here used to be yuppies; cheating wives and droves of gay guys. Definitely a Dagger place, out here. Except for those warships packed with glorified authority figures out on the water.

Waging war on drugs. Good for them. There didn’t need to be a political agenda taken out on drug users. Drugs claim lives as it is and so you wage war against the problem? That is backward logic. How will you ever find a balance when you keep attacking, violently, the things you don’t understand? Chaos and crime for the sake of control under the guise of compassion. Y’all never had a sense of personal freedom. Never been allowed to make your own mistakes. The laws dictate the mistakes you’ll be making. Your situation in life does much the same. Did. Excuse me.

A mediocre debater could argue justly for the lives of these doomed men and women on the boats. I wouldn’t be listening. To me they are among the better of examples exposing this countries deep rooted greed issue to a true light. Less government is more government, and more government is less. Control is not the answer. Never was, never will be. That is why your friends are really enemies. Because as long as somewhere someone is out to get someone else then no one anywhere can be free. Humanity needed more discipline. It wasn’t meant to last in the way it was.

Two aircraft carriers are stationed out at the center of the near horizon. They stretch far in contrast to the smaller boats but from where we’re sitting this scene could be blocked out by a dinner plate. In front of the giant boats a full sized nuclear submarine is floating at the surface; a long dim hump and a modest tower. They are the prizes of our exhibit.

Fanning out toward us is an array of armada warships, some stealthy and low, some battleships proud and tall, boats from Cuba, Mexico, the US Coast Guards. The Cutters are in the hands of the Daggers. Ha!

Daggers shuttle smaller crafts to and fro in the last minute organizations. We have the DEA on one ship, the Coast Guard on another, police scattered through the smaller boats, etcetera. So on and so forth. The Daggers out there are the necessary operators and crew. It’s all written down somewhere. Or at least recorded in the agenda of the allies guiding the Dagger’s around.

Me and Seth are on our second beers waiting to push the button. His eyelids are heavy and his head is hung over. We finished a joint recently and are sucking down some dudical Cuban Cigars. That’s Seth’s word. Dudical? Kids, man. Innocent minds edging ever closer to a destiny so far unforeseen.

“How you feel, Dice?” I call him Dice. He loves throwing dice.

“I feel good, RRRage. These seats are awesome. The air smells like fish and diesel fuel. And I don’t have to hear any engines for once. I like the sound of the water better.”

He says this without picking his head up or moving it whatsoever. However, he’s right, the giant futon seats draped in black fleece are a nice touch.

“Why don’t you call in the death from above?”

“Roger that.” He’s looking with his drunk hand for the walkie-talkie.

“Put the dial on 7.”

“Death from above. Repeat, death from above.”

We wait for a moment watching, trying to discern the movement atop the aircraft carriers, though they seem impossibly far away. No matter, binoculars aid the visuals and we both fiddle with the zoom nobs to see better. I am very attracted to this. On the edge of my seat. These unusual events are the moments I cherish most. Exploding Mount Rushmore felt a little like this. Burning Houston, not so much.

Seth, who can’t hardly move, had predicted resistance. He doesn’t yet fully understand they cannot fight back. The humans are always helpless to the power of the allies. At every moment they’ve got the cosmic equivalent of a hat pin to their ear.

In rapid succession dozens of apache and comanche(that’s ironic) death machines lift into the air. In the hazy sky I can observe the reflecting windows and shining lights best. The blades spin in trails of dim purple light in circles through altered ether as the intoxicated state of my consciousness dictates the appearance and nature of what you consider to be air. Yeah, but I’m talking about the everything essence. Static, what have you. The water is a sucker for the difference. Even the hues of the blue sky will mold to my whimzie.

Florida needs cats, I think. For every cop we kill today I will deliver one cat to it’s own territory in this state. They’ll come from zoos across the nation. Maybe I’ll release all the big zoo cats here- see what comes of the experiment.

The helicopters have positioned themselves in both left and right peripherals with a half dozen on either side; weapons aimed at the distant boat. And the fighters have begun to take off into the sky from the runways of the carriers. The screams of the engines burn through the thunder of the rotating blades. These powerful vibrating sensations make Seth throw up beside his chair, as indeed, to him, this effect is as nauseating as a tossing rough sea.

When three jets have departed from each carrier, the missile assault of the choppers begins. The lesser vessels closest to us are the first to burst into flames sending shock waves across the water and through the air. I love that feeling! That shock wave!

More missiles penetrate into the firestorms; causing them to grow. From the nuclear submarine a single rocket shoots high into the air. Then another rocket launches. Then several more.

The fighters scream toward the boats directly over our heads. Having targeted the remaining ships they unload more firepower into the engrossing destruction that bulges and leaps like ecstatic clouds of fire across flat water and over the vertical and capsized boats. An inferno for the memories. A city burning on the ocean. Populated by the worst of the worst; beautiful.

The jets streak over the strike zone raining down bombs. From what I can see, through the binoculars, and with my naked eyes, even the larger battleships have been blown into nothingness and the three largest ships are the last remaining.

Seth is awestruck, still wrapped in his giant black leather cape, anxiously revving the quietly rotating circular saw on his wrist. I have my black panther gear on; just black pants, shirt, and slip on jail shoes. Red bandana, of course. We chug on these beers and watch the show.

High in the sky, the burning rocket fuel marks the position of the little white incoming missiles heading for the three targets.         From the distance in all directions comes a six pointed star formation as the fighters break the sound barrier; gearing to kamikaze the carriers as the rockets strike. One jet strikes, then another, then another, and another, another, another; in rapid succession, like frantic pulls on pistol trigger but so much bigger.

The planes collisions are shut out by the larger blasts of the bunker busting submarine rockets. An especially jagged and jarring series of obnoxiously large explosions sends Seth running to my chair grabbing my side.

The sonic booms, the heat, vibrations and pulses, the roaring thunderous sounds; these wisp over us for exquisite moments; swaying us this way and that way playfully. These blasts permeate like hurricane winds for sure. We can feel heat from miles away. The breeze burns in the gentlest way; alcohol causing invigorating bodily sensations to roll through me. I feel fire like the touch of an angel; flames as beautiful as bare breasts and Hawaiian eyes.

The boom thunder reaching us is off the decibel scale as it rains down steel and cop limbs out there. Finally, the billowing flames settle into each other and the black smoke thins out by a minor degree. Once the last metal frames have sunk I see no evidence there were ever three enormous war machines out there. And that’s the way it should be.

I’ve spotted something much more special than these boats and dead authority figures. In the distance there is an extraterrestrial presence warming my heart. I can count six of them in different places around us. I smoke my cigar with a pressure in my skull gentle enough to pass for a greeting. They said hello, and now they glitter red, blue, and golden light as they sparkle and loft in place. Over the firestorm a slowly twisting vortex has appeared way high in the sky; the smoke being pulled into this vibrant phantom green force; swirling migration of spirit moving toward the source.

I wonder, ‘Where does that go?’

            Recording devise cuts out

 This is Seth talking, “… not what the adults I knew said about dying. I heard about heaven. The allies weren’t anything they mentioned. They said there is nothing afterward. They said, ‘black nothing.’ Why would we live a life if there is nothing after it?”

“There is nothing before life, either. You gotta learn to enjoy the little things, Seth. Your race went their entire existence never seeing a vortex of this significance. I presume…. Can’t say for sure. Just look at the beautiful way the smoke’s turning green and the vortex is spewing that color through itself and out across the entire sky- the only sky- but the smoke goes someplace else through that portal. Those cops are going with the smoke; into the sky or beyond it. No matter where they go, we are staying here. With the big cats.” The helicopters have positioned themselves over the flaming water, and then they simply flutter, falter, and drop in curving dives toward the ocean below.

 

 

Wandering and Wondering

 

I’ve never seen sands anywhere whiter than these. The shallows stretch out for about a mile, as far as I can see, and this windswept sandscape is speckled by a sparsely distributed palm trees. We’re not necessarily in Key West. That place is further… west. This may as well be there though. Without the town. It’s nothing more than a little blotted mark of a key.

Who would waste the opportunity to bask in the bewildering tug of the heavenly vortex while submerged in the emphatic beauty of this key? It’s uplifting in the most twisted way. The great hole in the sky is no longer visibly inhaling inorganic commodities- not visibly, and it would be shrouded in darkness were there not an evanescent glow emanating from its currents.

The air is fairly clear and calm as I desire. The skies are overcast in darkened green light like fumes or aurora borealis too far south. The water no longer appears blue. Instead the water is reflecting shades of green and black. The sun set an hour back but a full moon is glowing low on the horizon over the perceptual oddities of this moment in my life.

Seth switched out the cellular circular blade on his wrist for the cellular fire thrower we had made. He’s rushed out on amphetamines and magick mushrooms. He’s been throwing fire at a hungry panther stalking us; just keeping it at a distance. Though this black panther, of course, is not a hallucination. She is very real and very wary from the air lift down from a zoo in Georgia.

We’re two little kids to the cat. Actually, Seth is a little kid. I probably don’t register to her. I’m like air to most animal; not even there, but I think they’re beautiful. This girl wants to eat Seth, though. He calls her Dizzy. We think she is actually dizzy. I mean, I don’t. He does. The cat’s perfectly fine.

We should really feed this cat, though.

“I need a pig and I need it’s legs broken upon arrival.”

I’ll show Seth a little something about the way animals experience pain and fear and distress. Pigs, as it is, display these characteristics in an unmistakable way. They panic like a little human child does. Like any human would. Pigs even know when they’re going to be slaughtered.

“I’m getting kind of bored of playing with this cat. I want to stop.”

“You got the fire, Dice. Dinner’ll be here in a minute and then it’ll leave us alone.”

I hear the first faint squeals of a terrified swine coming closer through the quietus. I really would rather have not done this. The significance is so palpable. If a young boy is to respect nature, and the wonders of this awesome planet, he should see a pig die right about at Seth’s age. The child should observe the way the pig is aware of its impending demise. And children should see that the pig wants to live exactly as much as they themselves want to live.

A screaming uniformed police officer arrives on the wind. There were extras. This one looks feisty and wiry. He could hurt her.

“Better break all of his limbs. Keep the bones in.”

As he drops to the ground and the allies disperse, the guy shrieks bloody murder at the snapping of his forearms and shins, but he falls silent in shock nearly immediately.

“I thought you said you were going to feed the panther a pig?”

“That was a joke, Dice. People had a lot of problems with the police during this late last era and called the police ‘pigs’ as an insult. I don’t know how much cops act like pigs or don’t on average, but I’d say it’s a fair way to demean them for the way they blindly hold society to laws created by the most miserable, selfish, and small minded of people. They would let what little good they were doing outshine the frivolous laws destroying stability for the people they oppressed and would perpetuate the illusion of having the moral high ground.”

“Dizzy’s gunna bite him. Why’s she rolling him over?”

“She can crush his brain stem quicker than she can choke him.”

“Brain stem is in the back?”

“At the bottom of the skull. It’s what tells your lungs to breathe each breath. And it’s the reason your heart always beats. He won’t ever move again. Not dead yet, though. His mind isn’t feeling his body anymore, no more pain. Death comes a moment after. The heart beat stops. The blood halts and rots in the brain. Now he’s dead. He will find his way to the hole up there, too. That’s where the raw consciousness goes, beyond the veil, past the atmosphere, and up up away from here.”

The lesson here is to never eat pork unless you feel the meal can honor the dead pig. The animal wanted to live. And maybe they called cops pigs for that reason. That something they can behave so similar to you all, but for obvious reasons are nothing like you, nor as long as he is a pig will he ever be.

We’ll wander on through the night. Over the keys. Walking on water. Sometime tomorrow night we’ll arrive at my Mother’s house. We’ll have a manatee for dinner tonight. An old bull.  An old bull, I’ll have. In the moment before the manatee dies I’m going to acknowledge he was alive and wished to continue being so, and I’ll do the same again in the moment before I put his meat into my mouth.

 

 Initiate

“She lives on an island in the distance. A castle on stilts. Five m-60 guns on every ‘Rook’ looking corner. Various kinds of stinger missiles and grenades, too. We can be in range immediately. But first….”

From about 20 feet up a rubber raft is thrown down to our left with a tremendous splash throwing water vapor stunningly through the moonlight, and we move toward it. It is filled with food: Fruits and vegetables in one rubber tote, we’ll float these out last. Dead fish in another tote. Chum. Oatmeal. About 100 live crabs. These crabs need to go first.

The crusty crustaceans rise high and swirl briefly at tornado speed and then fly through the distance toward the fortress on the horizon. They’ll swirl and hover high and low like they’re in a drunken orbit until the birds come for them. This isn’t enough chum and we don’t really need these fish for much. ‘Use the chum and pop these fishes in the water around the home.’ The fish and the bloody mush rise and fly away.

“Here’s a beer, Seth. I got the rest in this bag.”

“Thanks. You got shots?”

“Yeah.” ‘Hey, dump those fruits and veggies out over the floor, lightly mash up half of them, and send this raft out to float. And fireworks. Loud screaming ones. Booming ones. Arm some of those leftover police. Like five SWAT teams and give them the biggest guns we have, and grenades, and stick them in orbit with instructions to take out the defenses. And if you can keep the pigs coming that’s all the better. The more the merrier. But get fireworks out there, too, cuz the sun’s coming up soon.’

“This is going to take a little longer than I expected.”

“Whatever. Can we get hammocks?”

“Brilliant Seth! We have been wandering for almost an hour…. Hammocks for all! I want those dead cops orbiting on hammocks, too! Wait. Scratch that last thing. But shots. I almost forgot. Rum shots.”

“We can have the shots right here while we’re waiting for the hammocks. You see the dolphins over there? Blowholes puffin water? They’re coming this way, sort of. Probably getting the same vantage point we got. They’re fucking geared up waiting to see some crazy shit go down.

“Here we go Guava Rum. That’s a good sunrise rum. Kinda weak, but chill, too. You know Seth. A drunk is a noble thing to be. There have been drunks since as long as there’s been hooch and as long as there’s been hooch, there’s been society and society rains on the dreams of the alcoholics. Alcoholics gain the wisdom of the spirit. The wisdom of an effect passed down since time immemorial, immortalized in the dynamic relationship of spirit and man, and man and society. Gamblers have it, too. Worse even. But, no. We have to cheers to addiction is the point here. Cheers Seth.”

“Cheers RRRage. To addiction.”

We fell asleep to rapid bursting series of gunshots and the distant hardly audible screams of dying pigs. Brilliant flashes, whistles, and explosions of fireworks and overwhelming intoxication. Things are beginning to become very surreal. We must have dreamt away an hour before I got the call to arise. The sun’s broken through the horizon to the east, beyond the little key cities. The green hues of the night aren’t much more than a dissolved solution barely perceptible in the fiery oranges of the fireworks and morning. The feedings have been primed and are awaiting our arrival.

In the distance I can see the home of my Mother. A whirling swarm of birds is the visual. They’re catching the influx of Cancer Crabs. Some vultures feeding on cop corpses I imagine. Corpses floating around on death hammocks. Ready to be laid to rest in the cemetery of the sea. Oceans red with chum about to bleed deeper with the appetites of hammerhead sharks. It’s a magical world.

They tell me my Mother is right there waiting at the middle most point of her fortress home; listening to the gunfire and watching the sharks swim below her feet. I never knew anything about Killingworth until recently. I also almost killed my Brother, too. This lady is the other part of what created me. The Yin to the Yang of my God. I hope she’s amused. I know I am.

 

 The Frenzy

 

 Neither Seth nor I have dark skin but Killingworth does. She’s a pistol. Real foxy lady. Like this gypsy who emits a powerful radiation of sex. Her flowing brown hair is sun kissed and her white satin capri pants with a matching tank top shape her masterpiece figure of curves. Currently, she’s enjoying key lime pie with Seth. I don’t want any of that stuff. We’re observing the water from the south west corner deck as this is the closest proximity to the various bio masses and feeding frenzies. We can see the show through some open storm windows. Storm windows I guess shatter easier in a storm? Because they’re kind of thin. Them water birds are obscuring the view of the sharks as they dine upon the fallen officers. The peace keepers. The street cleaners.

“So you just talk into a tape recorder all day?” Her eye sockets are almond shaped. Pointed outward. So seductive. She cracks a smile and her curls bounce in the light breeze.

“No, Mom. It’s a little more complicated than that.” There’s going to be transcription involved.

“Do you know I was still one of them when I had you two? Human?”

“You don’t say…. Listen, what comes after all this? The cops are dead. The sharks have fed. The water’s bled. But the demons aren’t dead. We’re still here. So, what now?”

“Now you live on. You free the animals as you’ve said. Far and wide, RRRage. This is a big world filled with cages to be emptied. Carnivores will eat people and the livestock will roam free. And look at the water. You’ve already devised how to sustain struggling carnivores. We eliminate the humans. They really had it coming.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I can feed them cops. I can feed them whoever, really. And they’ll have the space to live they’ve always needed. But this wilderness won’t look like the original one. This planet is polluted and toxic and dramatically warped by the scars of man. These third dimensional environments are breast feeding from a sickly, cancerous, old woman. Can she ever be quite right after what we’ve done? Ma?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. So, how about those baboons out on the raft? You didn’t think that one through, did you? These birds are vicious.”

“Well. They’re baboons. They’ll just keep mauling them like that. Look, you can kind of see them flying a little less close to the raft than they were. Yeah, they won’t even go near them anymore. The monkeys are eating that one bird. And there’s another swimming in circles. I give it 15 seconds until a shark is on that. I never knew there could be sharks like this in one area.”

Seth says, “It’s a feeding frenzy. I like how the scraps are still floating around; sun baked and half eaten.”

What Seth would remind the reader of this manuscript is that they need to understand how everywhere I go objects tend to float about. If you haven’t acquired the visual yet…. They hover. They levitate. They loft. There’s inertia involved. People have witnessed similar events in poltergeists. And for the sake of your fragile comprehensions you can identify my power as a transcontinental all powerful poltergeist. By all means.

That shark took a bird!

I wish you could see this. Blood red waters all around; distorting the shimmers of sunshine. The sharks- big or small- attack fiercely. Then the bodies tend to disappear below. This is the ocean as I would have it be always. Though, as much as my indulgences fall short of actual possibility and the waters everywhere can’t bleed forever, so too can they always bleed when I’m around.

“How long are we going to be here for? It smells like birds.”

“Well, Seth, first, it’s not going to smell like that the whole time we’re here; second, we’ll relax for a while; then I think I want to know what you would do and where you would go, if you had a choice?”

“I’d go to Ireland. We can kill the Catholics! And the other ones? Who was it Mom?”

“The Protestants. The whole country has been hunger striking because of us. Could be interesting.”

“I think now is the end of this story. Me and Seth got here to you, Mom. That was the plan. But I do believe we can go to Ireland. When we leave here it’ll be to go there. What month is it? Not Summer…. No crop circles in England. Then definitely Ireland. Wait!

“Let’s make Seth into one of us…”

“No!! No! RRRage! No, you can’t. Momma?”

“I think he’s against the idea.”

“Please. No.” RRRage puts the microphone up to and into Seth’s face and the sounds of sobs become muffled and crackle.

“No Brother. You will stay the way you want to be. Because you supposedly mean something to me. And your meaning means I grant your requests. Like a Djinn. Undoubtedly more unfortunate, informal, and unorganized.”

“You can’t recognize your own order RRRage. Your form of action echoes the cries of Gaia. You speak for the Mother. But not me. For her. The Earth Mother. Your father was invested in the indigenous peoples of the world. He had a vested interest in their trade negotiations. Their souls helped to restore the life of the surface world. Your deeds are cleansing and rejuvenating specific targeted demographics of nonhuman and human life. My purpose is to heal. Your father’s job, like reproduction in nature, was over the quickest. In and out. No. He saw every corner of this planet, really. He planted the seeds of you and me. Not you Seth. Ha. Kidding baby. You’ll have to get used to demeaning jokes. Inoffensiveness is low on the agenda.”

“Who impregnated you?” I ask her.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? It could be anybody and still not be that person. You won’t guess and I can’t give you clues.”

oMEGA

 

There was gummi bears and there was jubilation. There was beer literally falling from the heavens. There was flaming bird feeders burning grain alcohol. And I’ll admit, my spirit is getting a little frazzled.

I think I’ve altered the minerals inside of me somehow. Could this be my downfall? Yeah. Right. Nothing will ever defeat me. Save for time…. I never was and never will be again. I was born Eternally Dead. When the Pale Mystic is within you, you feel it like the sun on a summer’s dawn. You would feel like the sun if you were me.

My star collapsed into the first moment of my awareness and I’ve been a black hole since. Never actually eternal but as close to eternal as this universe allows for. I long to explore outer space. And I may one day. I want to see the entirely different universes; mere specks in the energy mass of the omniverse. I cannot explain to you the power of my desire to explore those other universes and their limitless possibilities. I fear I will never experience another universe. For now my biggest concern is getting to Ireland. Though I fear even Ireland is out of reach.

I feel as though I am shutting down. There is finality lurking in every direction I look. The allies stare at this fucking stuff. Black fizzles of spooge lofting around me; fading in and out of existence. The Omega. Omega forces. How could this be the end? It can’t. For one thing, my lifeline runs up to my armpit. I mean. Your death is not your decision. I thought mine was. I’ll be martyred. Or I’ll martyr myself for the religion of Me. Either way. I feel a need for jail. I feel I need to be confined, or I’d rather just leave this body behind; return to the Black Hills to find my mind.

I want this carcass to rot on the rubble of mount rushmore. I want to never remember what happened when I came to this place. This human place. I see the beauty of nature and in a moment I gasp for I am breathless. I have shed tears in awe of Gaia, and then I remember what you people did to her. Your stupidity allowed greed to know limitlessness. I constantly ruin the fucking moments when the Mystic within me should be melding with the Mystic beyond me.

Your behavior has put chores upon me. I’ll be freeing every single imprisoned animal on this planet. Resetting your karma. You’re welcome. I’ll assign Daggers to care for the sick and support the various needs of this global project. There are Daggers worldwide thanks to Heinous Henry- by the way, if you didn’t catch that fact, I mean. The operation is simple, really, and not worth discussing. I mean, we can feed the regeneration of wild cats with human meat. Wild human meat. Live human meat that runs or cowers in shock. It will be easy for the herds to graze when jungles grow over your cities and the weather levels the remains.

Some species might not make the transition. They’ll be missed. The animals I release will do better than people’s propaganda lies about inability to adapt said they would. And I mean that’s basically my plans. Some of you will live, of course. Wait. Yeah. Probably. The enlightened ones. Places like Mexico, Tibet, India, Peru, Shaolin, and so on.
I might start a zoo of my favorite human specimens. That would surely get boring. No. It might be worth it. I could keep all kinds of people in jars. With air holes. And one stick and one leaf. To recreate what they’re used to.

I don’t always talk into this recorder. Mom could use it. I’d like for her to have more face time with this recording devise, but she is an elusive mystical woman. My guess is she spends most her life as a mermaid.

Alright. Let me survive this time in my flesh and then we’ll do some real big things. Seth. Mom. Me. Ireland. The omniverse. And cats! More cats than were excluded from the bible. We’ll see how well this recorder picks up eye contact and body language while I communicate with the cats for a day.

Are you still upset about the extermination of the humans? Forget about it. I did you a favor. I swear. We’ll talk it out sometime. We’ll talk about how you can avoid repeating their mistakes. Rejoice, I found paradise for you. Remember, you were chosen to live. I was chosen by the Omega Forces. They’re agitated. They’re the dead and I am still alive.

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