I can talk for hours, nonstop, and never get even remotely close to properly illustrating the level of filth which I found myself submerged in, daily.
Imagine.
Scene fades in on the image of a lopped off monkey head with bloody boxcutter X’s for eyes, mouth agape, slowly travelling along a creaking, tattered conveyor belt.
Camera pans up and we see hot pipes sweat, hiss and wheeze, running off in every direction. A loud metallic shaking and clanging echos around the room, every few seconds. It’s a spine shaking, nerve shredding hugeness of sound, impossible to ignore, as if some sort of massive prehistoric octopus has the entire building in its death grip, beak tearing at the roof, in a vibrating hunger frenzy for the soft meat inside, the hideous beast clearly intent and focused on the task, well beyond distraction.
It is wholly impossible to take even a few steps through this jagged, rusting mousetrap environment without bumping a shoulder, outstretched forearm, or more often than not, your head against something hot, something sharp, serrated. Skin sizzles, radiating pain, a wisp of putrid smoke, flakes of rust and filth embedded deep into your flesh. You feel a drop of blood run down the side of your head, then another, then a steady stream, matting your hair into a slurry of blackened, Elmer’s glue mush.
You wince and grit teeth, curse your surroundings, predicament, existence, but these wounds are a small victory upon themselves, you know that. At least it wasn’t an eye, at the very least it wasn’t a God damn eye. You’ve seen it happen, sliced right in two, like a hard boiled egg, grown, hard man howling like baby, horrible sight.
At least I still have my God Damn eyes.
Pipes burst open through lazy repairs intermittently, spraying whatever God-awful, hot, oily muck they have running through them, wildly, out in every direction. Scalded workers dragged out by their ankles, stripped bare and piled in the snow out front.
Removal fees will be deducted from their last check, their family will be hounded, ruined, they knew that going in.
GET BACK TO WORK.
A shaky, grime-smeared hand reaches down and thoughtlessly snatches the cranium we’ve been following along the belt. In one swift, mechanical move, it’s dunked into a sitting bucket of steaming yellow stomach foam, then tossed across the room, landing with a THUD! into a passing cardboard box that is barely holding itself together, worn, sagging, damp with the sharp ammonia piss of a phantom cat which makes every corner of this world it’s toilet with impunity.
We see the box’s sides are decorated with crude, childlike drawings of what appear to be, upon closer inspection, scenes of bloody, forced coitus between a hairy, brutish man and three-legged, howling dog. A speech bubble emanates from the dog’s mouth and curses the infant Christ, blames the pristine, pink, savior-baby for not intervening and putting a stop to this wretched circumstance which has befallen him.
As with all art, you can’t help but ponder it’s meaning, albeit momentarily. You get the sense the dog, obviously dealt the losing hand here, is perhaps not completely innocent in the matter. It’s entirely conceivable that, having perhaps boasted of his desire or capacity for depravity at some earlier occasion, he is now simply called on, by someone able to force such matters, to prove his words with action. The joyless intensity in which the brute is attacking the crippled canine definitely makes it seem as if he is exacting retribution he is confident is due him, far from random violence, the dog appears to paying the price for some indiscretion, loose tongue, a debt he alone incurred, somehow.
You know you should feel pity, you are aware it’s wrong to make excuses for the brute, as the scene appears immensely cruel and painful, and to have no repulsion at it would be inhuman, but you do not. Not much, anyway. Just don’t. I guess you are inhuman, this is what it’s like.
Sorry, asshole dog, we all have our own bag of dicks to haul around this world. Yours looks heavy as fuck, I won’t argue with you there. Better yours than mine, better you than me.
Our box is lifted by a yet another set of scabbed, blood smeared hands, placed under a dangling udder-hose contraption and with the quick pull of a lever, filled to just under nose level with an exploding torrent of glittery, putrid, grey paste, condensed from the cheap perfume and vaginal secretions of a hundred low-IQ needle-drug nude dancers, forcefully wrangled from the early morning parking lots of unpopular tug clubs servicing Pearson International.
The box is closed, sealed and wildly shaken until it dissolves into thin air.
A buzzer sounds, a puff of smoke and another disembodied ape head is shat upon the belt at the other end of the room. One down, infinity to go.
A man bursts into the break room, screaming that it’s finally happened, just like he said it would! The lunatics have seized power, he will have no part of it!
He tears his shirt open and shoots himself in the chest with a .44 everyone knew he kept in his locker. He falls like a sack of potatoes. Work does not halt, the machines skip no beats. Someone calls him an asshole, no one even bothers to chuckle. Someone kicks the coke machine and calls it a motherfucker, the clock ticks on. What the fuck ever, dude.
In a scratchy tin can radio address, a frantic voice decrees it’s all to be immediately gathered, all of it. It’s to be wrapped in chains, buried deep in a bubbling pit of oil and noxious crud. After a short period of fermentation and rot, it will be covered in a thick layer of cement. A massive multi-cultural stone monument will then be erected on top, celebrating the ravages of addiction and criminality and mocking those crushed under it’s heavy foot throughout the unraveled annals of human history.
It says here that video screens at its base will allow visitors to watch crudely cut loops of grown men, with insurmountable debts that their children’s children will be divorced over, weeping and committing suicide alone, in their ill-fitting, DNA caked underpants.
They are really going all out, sounds like.
Ok, imagine:
A whirlwind of human depravity of the absolute highest rank and complexity, an unauthorized study on the elasticity of the human soul running completely amuck.
The scientist in charge has barricaded himself in his office; he’s faxing blurry photos of what’s believed to be his genitals to police and well-wishers gathered outside. He’s frantically scribbling his rambling, block letter manifesto on the back of a Children’s cereal box featuring a flaming chocolate devil sawing the head off a dopey, smiling owl with bumpy yellow dicks for feet. It turns the milk blood-red and the children are taught a delicious truth about the teacup frailty of life each morning, before taxidermy class.
‘A child not weeping has learned no lesson’ Screams across the front, in jagged ZAP! font
Imagine these things, if you will.
A plot of barren land involved in a long, drawn out court case. Left unattended out of spite, it’s overgrown with weeds and piles of rotting garbage. No hope for a turnaround, it will not be brought up to livable condition under any foreseeable circumstance. In fact, regulations are enacted which make even its most basic upkeep punishable by vicious lashings and sexual humiliation. Injunction after injunction rubber stamped and notarized.
Teeth baring gridlock is birthed, full-grown and starving. An attempt at goodwill goes awry.
Open mediation ends in the fiery self-immolation of a well-respected man of the cloth atop courthouse steps, live on television. Robotic Candidates take sides, propaganda screams across television wires, radios crackle to life with buzzing misinformation.
Meanwhile, the weeds explode their hold, the decaying heaps of waste grow taller, the fetor gains wings, grows legs, arms, reaches out and chokes passersby. You can see the stench on a map. You can see it from space. An lady astronaut has taken her own life, after gazing upon it, it is feared. You are informed on breaking developments by a screaming, nude woman on television, forty, sometimes fifty times an hour.
What once was a local skirmish for title, ownership, is now an incessantly scrutinized, worldwide war of stubborn wills and sluggish wits. You MUST take a side, the television screams at dimwits, and they waddle up and oblige. Families are torn apart, drunken fathers shoot sons over loud kitchen conversation and mothers scream and weep ‘Why? Why?’ as the drunken policemen laugh and break every window in the house with their nightsticks before leaving.
By the way, lady, you owe us money. The officers want to buy cocaine. Past due immediately, your credit has been tarnished beyond repair, please move out onto the avenue at once. If we see that baby unattended, we’ll kill it.
Massive hordes have gathered around the perimeter, societal hierarchy has been established. Rumor runs rampant.The order has come down from heaven, you see. You are to continue hurling insults and stones at the opposing side in perpetuity, you will train your children to take your place before you pass. Not an inch is to be given.
The corpses of rotting couriers litter the no man’s land between the sides, splayed out in greasy, grotesque, bloated rot. Innocent men fingered as spies are executed at dawn. Bugles honk wounded goose fuck calls as they fall.
BRRRRAAAAPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTT BRRRRUUUUUMMMMMMPPPPPPTTTTTT BRRRRAAAAAPPPPPPP
Widows weep and screech and fall to their knees. An obese woman of what appears to be Mediterranean descent is seen lying on her back, legs pointed straight up. As eyes focus, we see she’s poking wildly at what, originally reported as possibly some sort of raccoon or weasel, is now revealed to be her own comically hairy asshole, with what looks like children’s safety scissors, in full view of both the cameras and her grandchildren. She is calling their names, scooching around to give them better views, making sure to sear into their heads horrifying images they’ll spend their entire lives, from exactly that moment on, trying to blot out with ever-expanding stews of hard booze and powdered drugs.
Brown manila folders are removed from an impenetrable safe and solemnly ripped open, as plans of last resort are drawn up. Seminal pre-fluid runs down the leg of a decorated military man, a hundred years past his prime, onto the heads of the authority worshipers bowed before him. A war profiteer licks the lips of an odorous man in desert garb and rhythmically squeezes the bulge which strains against his pants, tapping out ‘I DESERVE TO DIE’ over and over, in Morse code.
Leaders bow their heads and grimace and end contentious meetings with ‘God help us all’ but it’s clear that he’ll be of none. He’s decided to sit this one out.
‘Fuck that shit, fuck those assholes’ The only statement he’s prepared.
Walking past a newsstand, you see the headline, it screams out ‘The World Holds It’s Breath’, and, for some reason, there’s a picture of you, at your all time fattest, underneath it.
‘God that’s an awful picture, why did they use that picture? Why are journalists instinctively cruel?’ you wonder to yourself.
You have no stake in this game, could not care less about it, yet your blinking corpse is apparently somehow tied to a 200 foot tall lightning rod, painted neon green, directly at the center of this turmoil and people want answers. NOW.
Imagine.
The willingness to bare teeth and gnaw one’s own arm off, in defiance of a simple conciliatory handshake. This would be considered a highly desirable trait within this culture I am describing having descended into. You are walking through and it’s a thousand gnarled arms outstretched from between rusting prison bars in a terrible, skipping dream. Each covered in boils, with scorched skin tearing and popping, dripping with puss, hissing, grasping at your clothes as you pass, calling you ‘faggot’ and trying to spit chunks of salty phlegm directly into your mouth. You must ignore them, concentrate, pay them no mind.
Screaming psychological disorders of such unique, intensely burning amperage it would be useless to devote any amount of study to them, best written off as pure anomaly and left to rot in the jungle.
‘No point, too rare. The machine must be malfunctioning, these numbers make no sense. Let’s just move on. Anyone caught trying to bring it back onto the plane will be shot.’
‘But Sir, we need to at least try to…’
‘You saw NOTHING!’
A foul electric the likes of which I speak of here, a respected scientific body even acknowledging the possibility of its existence, would, in a very real way, cast a woeful shadow, a small spreading crack upon the sad, moon face of humanity.
Pestilence would surely burst forth in massive waves as the crack widened, I can envision nothing else. Spiders. Inch by inch, a sea of writhing, hairy black covering every beautiful thing.
In this inescapable vision of mine, they rampage forth, instinctively tearing holes in any and all warm flesh they come across, laying their eggs by the millions. Stumbling masses of idiot humans frantically pick at the roiling boils with anything they can find. Their fingers, a needle, car key, an outstretched coat hanger held over flame, it’s all of little use. Infection sets in. They are now high production incubators for the spreading plague and not much else.
Sometimes it is best to just accept one’s place within his living sphere.
Sometimes the best thing to do would be to blow yourself up with dynamite.
This is how civilizations collapse, exactly this way.
Christ is introduced to the savages, rectally, and soon all monuments fall. The chieftain’s head on a stake, the King’s blood on a undeserving blade. They take the wafer, a slow, silent gunshot. Mohammed hacks the limbs off a thousand children in one day, high fives all around. Progress.
On the second day, the Lord declared ‘Every single thing from this point forward will be hideous’ and the people were bummed.
Maggots feed on hosts until they become too large, at which point they instinctively gnaw an exit through the eyeballs. It’s the thinnest skin, they are drawn out towards the light, you see, nature finds a way.
Balanced on the tip of the nose, they spread their wings, sticky with goo, and take flight, searching for a solid meal. You, the incubator, left hollow, dangling from a tree, shaking in the wind, the very definition of the word ‘depleted’.
For it to be even an accepted possibility, moving forward in the evolution of our species, that a living soul was capable of becoming so mangled, if that terrible seed were to be carelessly dropped onto fertile soil, only towering, root-choking calamity could ever sprout. There is simply no other possibility.
An unnaturally fast growing vine who’s fruit explodes like a hand grenade when bitten into, growing by the dozens in playgrounds and schoolyards from coast to coast. The children cannot be beaten back from them, they come, wave after wave. It’s thought the trees release some sort of attractant, some sort of pheromone, the young are completely frenzied for the fruit.
It knows where the children are kept and it’s evolved accordingly. An infant human falls into a Venus fly trap, takes weeks to dissolve. Nothing can be done, put it out of your mind.
A re-thinking of entire belief structures would be a necessity. Men of the most hardened faith would see it obliterated, turned inside out. A supreme being of anything but malicious design and intent would be a laughable concept to even the most pea-brained, chain-email forwarding housewife.
I describe nothing less than a whole new, previously unknown palette of poisonous, negative colors for nature to paint with.
Discoveries of this sort were on nobody’s wish list. Nobody was working tirelessly to uncover these sorts of things. I stumbled upon it, like a man in brand new sandals would stumble upon a pile of freshly laid dog shit on the way to the mailbox in the morning.
Well, darn it all to heck.
Walking in that first day, not turning around and running the fuck home upon being offered the position, in hindsight, was a bad call. Damn near lethal. It were exactly as if I’d stood before a hooded council, lit a candle and eagerly agreed to being wrapped in a piss soaked bed sheet and kicked off the side of a boat into vat of raw sewage, over and over, day in, day out, 7am sharp, Monday through Friday. This will never end.
‘Yes, that sounds like a fine way to spend a few years’
Every single undesirable trait the human animal can exhibit, amplified by a full one hundred percent, directly in your face, 24 hours a day. Early in the morning, late at night, no repose. They can show up at any moment, kick your door down, laugh, make demands, light fires, throw fireworks at your head as you try to sleep. They are just allowed. Nothing can be done. Go ahead and try.
Violence, greed, arrogance, puke, blood.
Seething, bitter, roiling anger and hatred.
Endless rivers, branching off as far as the eye can see. Teddy Roosevelt drowns crossing each, over and over, he’s found himself outmatched, he is defeated. ‘Go on without me, I am bested’
I close my eyes and see staggering, sore-covered creatures splashing around in the feculence, tearing one another apart, snorting and rooting around for imaginary flakes of gold in the muck. Fangs bared, veins bulge, eyes spinning in rapid circles, red and empty. They screech and scream and beat their fists into anything that gets near them. Chunks of meat fly off their claws in every direction. There is no here or there, right or wrong, only right now this second and this shape in front of me that needs to be bested, killed, mounted, destroyed, devoured.
Looking back, I would have preferred someone told it to me straight during that first ‘interview’ I had. If he would have simply stated:
‘This job is basically every level of hell ever envisioned, compressed into a stinking, green, gelatinous goo, spread across the shaft of a nail-studded baseball bat, slammed directly into the side of your fucking skull, a dozen times a minute, for the entirety of your time here’
I would have gone ahead with a much more clear idea of what I was in for, if it were laid out to me in such plain speak. I would have still taken the job, mind you, but it would have been nice to be at least somewhat prepared.
Straightforwardness was far more than you could ever ask from one of those soul deviants, though. They’d intentionally deceive you instead, even with no particular gain to be had by doing so. This is how men of great wealth and power get their kicks, I come to learn. Taking a bum’s change cup and throwing it into a sewer, kicking him in the ribs as he crawls after. Tripping a blind person and kicking their cane away, getting down on one knee next to him and whispering terrible things into their ear, as you pretend to help him up.
‘God made you blind because your father was a rapist, he raped children, everyone knows it, your Mom would watch, she sucked a cop off routinely while you were in Utero’
It was just their base nature to be cruel and damaging to everything around them.
Like wartime factories, filled with rows of chugging machines that stamped out twelve-foot by twelve-foot sheets of impenetrable immorality 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for years on end. It was almost impressive.
These men had children, they would routinely breed, there were no laws in place to dissuade it. You’d hear them say terrible things about their offspring, wishing they would die in car accidents and so-forth. They were someone’s ‘Dad’. That is what disturbed me most of all disturbing things I encountered there. Still does. These men were animals, lower than animals, far less civilized than say, a circus bear.
A human child, I would think, would have a better chance if slathered with honey and set out to open sea, resting on a raft made of Popsicle sticks, rather than coming to age within the most luxurious suburban mansion, were it lorded over by one of these merciless entities. To imagine the God awful human women who would not only agree to sit still and be brutishly penetrated by one of these ghouls, but actually allow it’s seed to implant itself within her womanly walls, in exchange for absolutely nothing but a tacky, cobbled together illusion of material wealth, it reviles the mind to think of such a woman being allowed alone with a child for ten minutes, let alone an entire childhood.
I met the most hideous human beings you can imagine in my years down there. Unbelievable monsters, like depraved creatures out of ancient literature. Usually resembling, in base temperament and overall demeanor, something out of a fairy tale cruel German parents in the 1600’s would tell their child to make them eat unappealing root vegetables.
‘If you don’t eat your blood beets, Leo Bloone will sneak in your window at night and kidnap you; he’ll take you to Chicago and make you work for him on the floor of the CBOT, in the ten-year futures pit, checking his trades!’
Jesus Christ, Leo Bloone. My hand instinctively shakes typing it.
This is a man Pol Pot would have surely declared ‘difficult’ to work with. Secret recordings of Stalin surely exist where he speaks admirably of Leo Bloone’s managerial style.
‘If only I could master his cruelty’ Stalin sighs, wistfully.
I am positive that were a worldwide search done, some sort of ongoing British televised Euro contest, he would easily place in the final two or three most unpleasant, unlikable human beings alive.
He’d damn sure be a fan favorite, no way around that.
That Russian cannibal who ate all the children, Chikatilo, he is the person I am most reminded of, when thinking of Leo Bloone. When I read descriptions of that man’s outward personality and the social impressions he made upon those who crossed his path during his action years, I have a chuckle and say ‘That’s totally Joe Bloone’
By all rights, his name should be a universally used adjective for ‘unbearable prick’. A man arrested for punching his grandmother in the uterus so hard she died, over an errant round of miniature golf, he would be accused of ‘Pulling a classic Bloone’ on nightly news reports nationwide, in a world that made any sort of actual sense.
This extremely wealthy adult man was consistently unable to walk even three baby steps without launching into a high-pitched, screaming, crybaby fit over twelve different things around him, just wholly incapable.
He once punched a brick wall, shattering his hand, because he was given incorrect coin change back at McDonald’s. I saw this happen myself, was standing right next to him. I said to myself ‘This guy here is a real idiot’
A multi-millionaire with several large houses, a gorgeous local television news reporter for a wife and ownership stakes in successful bars and businesses from one end of the city to the other, erupts in vicious, bone crunching rage over, I believe it was a matter of 34 cents. He continually visited the McDonald’s for days after, screaming insults at the cashier, threatening him with violence and death, being dragged out by the police at least three different times. I heard rumors that the cashier or possibly manger was granted a restraining order against him at one point. A fucking McDonald’s.
This may seem like I am making these things up, I am not. This was a person I got involved with. Not just involved, this was the man who I was in direct charge of managing and keeping track of hundreds of thousands of his trades daily and who I had to get money out of at the end of each week, for a spell there, even if he lost money trading that week.
On that end, I was not simply given my check like every other job in the world. I was forced to walk blocks away, to his lavish office, on my own time, and ASK for my check. Sit in a waiting room for him to return from where we just were together and then wait for him to see me, THEN ask for my check, THEN wait for it to be brought to me after he got around to making the call for it to be brought up. Sometimes it’d take over and hour simply for him to arrive, he’d stop and have a drink or have lunch first. A few times he never came at all, it’d be the following Tuesday or Wednesday before I finally got paid, and he’d forever try to short change me on top of it, when I finally did get the check.
When pressed on why this ridiculous process was in place, when simply handing it to me at work seemed so much easier, in every regard, he said ‘because that’s how I want to do it’ and that was that.
This is exactly the type of guy you really did have to worry about having you murdered, if he owed you even the smallest, most insignificant amount of money and he decided he didn’t want to give it to you.
A terrible, truly detestable human being in every conceivable measure.
I had the extreme bad luck of working for this man for no more than eight weeks, over ten years ago, and he was such a towering asshole that I will surely remember it for the rest of my life. I weigh all other bad experiences life presents me against the experience of being employed by the repugnant, soulless gargoyle Leo Bloone.
People ask me how it is I am rarely fazed by events when they happen, things which may have others wildly irate or frazzled out beyond rational thought or action. This is my secret, those eight weeks. I am now impenetrable. Stress and sorrow bounce off me like a small, flamboyantly gay bird hitting a bulletproof window of the Pentagon.
‘Well, my legs are horribly mangled, my spine shattered and arms completely crumpled and useless, and the men who did this with pipes have since emptied my bank account and impregnated my wife with a rainbow of street babies, but at least I do not have to wake up at 5am and work for that fucking asshole Leo Bloone tomorrow. I do not have to hear that womanly helium screech of his ever again and knowing that is fucking fantastic, bring on the morphine! Shoot it directly in my balls! Hit me with a hammer! Let’s party!’’
Hopefully he’s rotting away alone, right now, in some decrepit home for wayward assholes. That’s how I like to envision it, anyway.
I like to think about him being told he has cancer by a doctor from time to time, when I’m feeling down about something, peps me right up.
‘Leo, you have testicular cancer, you will die a slow, creeping death the likes of which Genghis Khan would not wish upon men who betrayed him’
The feeling I get, after thoughts such as those, it’s similar to one a more even tempered person might receive after smelling a beautiful flower or gazing upon a beautiful mountain or ocean sight. It’s the same reaction someone would get from expensive aromatherapy or electroshock sessions. The world is calm for a moment and the birds chirp. A butterfly rests on the tip of your nose. A young Juggalo dies peacefully in his tent.
In a room of the foulest human beings in the entire world, this man was absolutely reviled. An audible groan would arise from every corner when he entered a room, really would.
These are bad men from every corner of the Earth, I am talking about, criminals of major renown. A few of these guys had multiple books written about their dastardly and unpleasant deeds, authored by retired federal agents who chased after them for years to no avail. Real honest to God gangsters. I worked for Russian gangsters, Italian Gangsters, Irish Gangsters and even some Polish Gangsters. Yes, there are Polish gangsters and they are NOT nice, believe me. One of them was arrested for burning his own mother to death in an insurance scam while I was employed by him. It was my boss, I got to be questioned by police in a gruesome murder, how fun! He got life, then committed suicide in his cell, by the way, still owed me twenty six hundred bucks at the time. I sure could use that money right now, as I write this.
These men would stop in their tracks and apologize to me when I told them who I was working for in conversation.
Once, an older Italian gentleman who went by the nickname of ‘Bones’, for exactly the reasons you’d think an older Italian gentleman would go by that nickname, once stopped me in the hallway
‘I am sorry to hear that you are working for that prick, here take some cash, I know he’s ripping you off that rat fuck, I wish he would just fucking die’
Gave me 400 dollars. Didn’t even put a dent in it.
That takes a real special spurt of DNA, to get that sort of reaction down in that place. A cotton swab run across bus station toilet seats then stuck up the ass of chemically castrated vagrants, pimps and killers from ocean to ocean. STD warts and boils clustered up the shaft of tiny, misshapen dicks, popped open and dripping into a Petri dish, waiting to be mashed into the freezer-burnt eggs of the most merciless female Nazi prison guards. Implanted into the uterus of a Orca whale that has killed a dozen of it’s most militant lesbian trainers. That is how I envision something like a Leo Bloone is brought into being and unleashed upon this Earth. Tears it’s way out of the womb, swims to the surface and spits it’s own steaming, chewed mucus plug into the lap of a profoundly retarded child seated in the front row, simply trying to celebrate it’s birthday.
‘YOUR MOM DRANK, THAT’S WHY YOU ARE THAT WAY, YOU SHOULD CUT HER THROAT WHILE SHE’S SLEEPING, MAKE GOD PAY’
You know how you look back, after the fact, a lot of the time and have fond memories of the people who were around you, sharing in the experience with you? Even if overall, it was an unpleasant experience? How people in plane crashes or hostage situations might have reunions with fellow passengers or captives years after, hugging and showing pictures of their family to one another while they wipe away tears? Some sort of strong, human bond develops?
Yeah, well, I don’t have that about any of the people I worked with down there. When I see one, I look away and ignore them. They do the same.
My closest allies there, people I was with everyday, people I lived with, traveled with, drank, drugged, ate and smoked with, I never spoke to them again after leaving, and they’ve never tried contacting me either. Clean break, only way with a situation like that, only way. Done, out, off, burn it.
Women I furiously dated, took ecstasy with, who I sat and talked with for hours about this and that and ate their pussies and who spilled their every inner emotion to me while I did it, professed a deep and unshakable love for me, all of them, they turn away quickly, change train cars, cross the street when we see one another now. I do the same, it’s just understood.
Most of these women have entirely different lives now, with dull, beige children and square-shaped SUV men with regular type office jobs. They look cleaned up, like they’ve gained weight, hair washed. You can tell they have not touched a drug that wasn’t prescribed to them in years, yet there’s still that electricity to them, buried deep inside, you feel it. A slight ZAP! Hits your own and it’s like magnets, pushing away from one another desperately. NO!
You remember her, that girl on the other end of the train car, with the stroller. Ah, yes, she was naked, on all fours. On the carpet of a Denny’s, if you remember correctly, masturbating furiously with her own high heel, while diners whooped and hollered and snapped photos, as police sirens got closer and closer outside. Your tongue as far up her asshole as it’d go, in the front seats of a movie theater showing some sort of religious cartoon, ushers trying to pull you off, telling you they’ve called the police, to just please leave. ‘What is wrong with you?’
That’s someone’s Mommy now.
If I get any laffs from anything residing in that portion of my past, it’s with that.
The next generation in bungling gorilla hands, dropped on it’s soft spot over and over, held by it’s feet and bashed against the wall of the exhibit, schoolchildren gasp.
‘I did my best, it’s the only way I knew’, the Gorilla pleads in court.
‘I’m gonna grow up to be just like Mommy, yes I am. She used to kiss two boy’s wieners at the same time, at the bar’
My memories of that time and place are filled with images of awful people doing awful things to themselves and one another, and not much else. Red, screaming faces and bursts of sudden violence intertwined with rivers of spinning, spraying vomit. I am choking someone and if I’m not pulled off I WILL kill them, my hands will not loosen. Felony, unpunished. People clap.
So much vomit. You have not even the slightest CONCEPT of how often I vomited on myself. Vomit down my shirt, on my hands, on my pants, in my car, on the street, on the train, directly into the face of the chick that was on the cover of playboy that month. Every single day, vomit, from the first day till the last, and every single day in-between.
Very quickly, I was averaging 12 pills a day, any ONE of which would get a novice so high they could not function. Real heavy shit, top of the line narcotics. Washing them down with straight whiskey at 6am, the bartender not batting an eye. Vomit, pill, vomit, drink, pill, vomit, repeat.
In my memories of that time, that place, people I dislike flop around on the filthy floor of a shitty apartment, overdosing on twenty different things, while people laugh and take bets on whether he’d live or die and I kind of hope he does.
Women in their bra and G-string panties, always G-string panties, out of their mind on cocaine and xanax, always cocaine and xanax. I see them putting lipstick on a dead body because they thought it would be funny to see the look on the cop’s faces when they arrived.
I see a man I knew to be an asshole lying in a pool of blood in a filthy alley, with his head split open, eyeball hanging out. No one else is around and I am standing looking at it. I just happened to go out to get high at the wrong time. ‘Well, this is not something I want to be involved with’
Regardless, not feeling as if it were a bad thing. Guy was a REAL asshole. Knowing exactly who did it and why and never seeing them come even remotely near having to answer for it, seeing them routinely laugh and brag of it loudly and publicly for years after, making fun of the fact he was a vegetable after it. Apparently you can do that if you are wealthy.
I remember hundreds of hyper-tense drug situations in shitty houses in shitty suburbs and in shitty cars with shitty people, where you were absolutely positive you’d be killed or the cops would bust in at any second. Your every electrified nerve, blazing, irrefutable intuition telling you ‘THIS IS WHEN YOU GO TO JAIL’ or ‘THIS IS WHERE YOU DIE’ but you never do and it makes no sense. Cops walk away, get in their cars and drive on. You never hear another word about it.
I remember creepy little dudes with gutter accents which you could not place, noses running, walking up and waving a photograph in your face ‘Hey man, check it out, I hid a camera in the toilet and took pictures of my wife taking a shit, she didn’t even know I was there! I’ll sell you the whole set for 100 bucks’
This was all considered totally acceptable behavior, desirable, even. That is what I remember most.
It’s funny that I say ‘acceptable’ and ‘desirable’ as if there was some sort of ruling body which dictated decorum. There was not. It was carnivorous apes on an Island in the middle of the sea. Which one of us is in charge? ALL of us are in charge, let’s EAT our own ejaculate! Pull the car over and put the hood up, we’ll shoot the first person who stops to help! Let’s make someone drink PISS!
It is true that a couple of girls I met there were fun to diddle with, and diddle I did, and fondness is there, as I am no monster, but no man in his right mind would invite their brand of fun into an otherwise sane life, away from that abnormal culture. You never even consider it.
I assume most are dead anyway.
Once you are out, you can’t believe you were ever in, seems unreal and impossible. Why would I ever ‘reconnect’ with a woman who put a loaded gun to my head as we fucked, after I finally got rid of her?
‘You know I pulled the trigger, it just didn’t go off, isn’t that crazy?’
When you are immersed in, say, the exotic reptile underworld, you may desire to share your home with deadly poisonous creatures and are able to see and become fond or even obsessed with a sort of unique and dangerous beauty in them.
When you are not in that world, you think anyone who is involved in it is insane, which they clearly are.
People accuse me of being full of shit when I tell some of the stories. There’s no way that world exists, they say. You did not have an actual ‘get out of jail free’ card, those don’t really exist. The world is not really like that.
I just let them think that. I understand why they want to. I know different, though. I wish I didn’t, I wish I never stepped foot onto that God forsaken trading floor, but I did, and I do and it was fucking awesome and I would think about jumping out of the 43rd floor window every single day, every single day. I would stand there for 20 minutes, sometimes, thinking about it.
I hope to God that a giant meteor hits this Earth in my lifetime and wipes out the human race, I truly do, busts this planet into a million tiny pieces. That is the only finale to this absurdity I’ve witnessed, I’ve experienced, that makes even an inch of sense to me.
If the universe can write a poem, let it be that, please.
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