744 lines
40 KiB
Plaintext
744 lines
40 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | _/_/_____ | | > > _/_/_____ | |
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| | /________/ | | / / /________/ | |
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| | |_/ | |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Silent Applause
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Part 2 of 2 by The Pusher
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>>> a cDc publication.......1991 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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______________________________________________________________________________
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One day I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on a class trip. Most
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kids go there at least once on a class trip and most hate it. However, I was
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into the whole experience. To me, visiting a museum is a lot more exciting
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than a keg party. So I'm checking out the major shows, I'm checking out the
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lectures, I'm watching my classmates yawn. Then, I gotta go pee. No major
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crisis. I ditch everyone and head for the john. It's empty which is fine with
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me. At an early age, I had drilled into my head all the horrible things that
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could happen in a public bathroom. Ok, so I'm peeing and I feel at ease. It's
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a brief moment of serenity. Relieving your bladder kinda relieves your
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anxiety. I'm in a state of nirvana, and I start to hear this moaning. It's
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coming from the stall directly behind me. I figure it's just some guy rolling
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logs. He's working hard and I know what he's going through. I finish peeing,
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but the moaning continues. And it's not the moaning of defecation, it's the
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moaning of ecstasy. There are a lot of colloquial expressions to describe
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what's going on in the stall. I start thinking, "Man oh man, don't you have
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any shame? You're playing with yourself in the Metropolitan Museum of Art."
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What kind of flake what do something like that? "Can't you wait 'till you get
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home?" I get angry. How dare this scoundrel abase himself in one of the
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world's most prestigious museums! I start banging on the stall door and
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yelling at him. To start trouble on a class trip is unwise, but this is the
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Metropolitan for godsakes! He panics of course and rushes out of the stall,
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pants around his knees, an open Hustler in his hand with the centerfold
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flopping around. He makes a break for the door but I detain him. I do a quick
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scan of him. He's a total pud. He's like Woody Allen's mutant twin. He's
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old, but he probably still lives at home with his mother. Which would explain
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why he has come to this eminent museum to perform his depraved deeds. I'm
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pretty infuriated by now so I start slapping him in the head and stuff. He
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covers up, which encourages me even more. I've seen plenty of Kung-Fu movies
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so I start using the praying mantis technique on this loser. I land a few
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blows to his face and then sweep out his legs. He hits the floor, face
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bleeding. None of the blood is getting on the Hustler centerfold. I start
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connecting with some snap kicks to his head. Strangely, he's not making any
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noise, and I'm like having fun. Suddenly, _The Silence Of The Lambs_ (1991)
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pops into my head. What would Dr. Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter do? I get
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down on my knees and pat my victim on head. Then I move in close and arch my
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neck like I'm about to kiss him. Except I don't kiss him. I bite into his
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face. I hear nose cartilage cave-in and now he's screaming. I chow down and
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make a note to compliment my dentist on his fine work. I'm really enjoying
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myself. My stepmother says that I never try new foods. Oh, if she could see
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me now! I stop for a second and tell him this Eric Clapton dead son joke I
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made up. He doesn't laugh. I get offended and slam his head into the
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porcelain sink. The blood is really starting to spew out, and I stop eating
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before I get soaked. Besides, I felt my teeth scrape against his cheek bone.
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You can't go any deeper. I spew some empty threats to the guy and leave.
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Who says you can't have fun in a museum?
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Just then, I wake up from my day dream. There is no one on the floor. No
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blood on my hands. I'm standing alone in a bathroom in the Metropolitan Museum
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of Art. Sometimes we think about the most savage things.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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What I found in my locker in school that morning was quite a shock. Why
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two Elvis CD's? Who knows that I like Elvis? Who knows that I've seen most of
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the Elvis movies? Closer examination of the CD's revealed that they were
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actually one double album. "Elvis Presley-50 Worldwide Gold Award Hits Volume
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1". It was a pretty comprehensive collection, including some of the King's
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more retarded songs like "Bossa Nova Baby" and "Kissin' Cousins." I suddenly
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recalled the old man who came into the video store at 8:59 on the night I went
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out with the Faye Dunaway-looking woman. These Elvis CD's made me think of
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him, though I can't call to mind what the connection is. As for the other item
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in my locker, specifically the decapitated head of the Faye Dunaway-looking
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woman, let's just say I won't shed any tears over her. She was nothing but
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trouble, that whole evening with her was a catastrophe. From me being drugged
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to going to that sickening hippy commune so she could get a tattoo. As far as
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I'm concerned, she got everything she deserved. Maybe she wouldn't have ended
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up like this if I had been there to give her a hand. Except what she needed
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now was a head.
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Her decapitated head lay in my locker between my book bag and a Math book.
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Whoever left me the head was very tidy. There was no blood at all in the
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locker. I always appreciate professionalism. So I grasped the head by a tuft
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of blond hair and chucked it into the metal garbage can directly across the
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hall from me. The head rebounded off the back of the garbage can and landed on
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the floor with a spongy thud. I immediately bounded forward, grabbed the head,
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and returned to the exact spot where I had taken my shot. I can be quite
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obsessive when it comes to throwing something into a garbage can. I would
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spend all day if necessary to make the basket. This time I adopted a standard
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free-throw position. I mock-dribbled the head a few times, bent my knees, and
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gently let the head fly. It landed in the garbage can with a resounding thud.
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A teacher poked his head out of a door and inquired into the thud. I would've
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loved to tell him what it was, but I played it safe and lied.
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I had one night of excitement, but now I was ready to resume my safe and
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simple lifestyle. My motto in life is "Live slow, die old." I had no
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intention of pursuing this little mystery, 'cause I don't want anyone shooting
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baskets with MY head.
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Later that day, I went to buy some bagels for my mom. I parked in a lot
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behind the store and went to get the bagels. Walking away I noticed that I had
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left my lights on, but I was too lazy to go and turn them off. When I returned
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there was a note stuck on the trunk of my car. It was raining so there was no
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need to tape it to the car, the rain acted as glue. I picked up the small
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yellow paper and was able to read it even though it was soggy and the ink had
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already started to run. It said:
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_________________________________________________
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| HEY! You left your lights on! |
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| There's a guy standing behind you with a gun. |
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| That's me. |
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|_________________________________________________|
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Upon reading the word "gun" I instinctively executed a perfect
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duck-and-roll maneuver just like Chuck Norris has done in many, many movies.
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If you're ever in a situation where someone pulls a weapon on you or grabs you
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from behind, your best bet is to act IMMEDIATELY, in a split second. Your
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attacker is not expecting this, and it could mean the difference between life
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and death. Safely out of the way of gunfire, I surveyed the parking lot.
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There was no gunman behind me. The yellow slip of paper was still clenched in
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my hand, and I noticed there was also some writing on the back. It said:
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_________________________________________________
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| Nice move, cowboy! |
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| Don't worry I'll catch you later. |
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| Love, |
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| A Big Hunk O' Love |
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|_________________________________________________|
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Two points of interest:
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1. "A Big Hunk O' Love" is an Elvis Presley song recorded in 1958.
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2. The word "catch" had been crossed out with a single horizontal line.
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Written above it in scratchy handwriting was another word.
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"Kill."
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______________________________________________________________________________
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One summer I went on a "teen tour." Sleepaway Camp was definitely an
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experience I would not repeat. For some reason, I got stuck in the psychopath
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bunk. There was a fist fight every day, and porno mags were the working
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currency. There was one kid who had a habit of dropping his shorts in the
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middle of the afternoon and rubbing his privates in the catcher's glove of my
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best (and only) friend at camp. I really enjoyed the water-gun-filled-with-
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urine wars between the bunks, but I needed a change of pace. So I went on this
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teen tour in the summer between ninth and tenth grade.
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On the first day I met two guys who came from the same town in
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Connecticut. We all shared the same musical tastes, and as a result, instantly
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became buddies. We always roomed together, hung out together, etc. I saw one
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of them many times after the tour was over. We always ran into each other at
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the same club in Connecticut, and twice at the Ritz in New York. The other
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fellows were friendly and I had no trouble getting along with them. There was
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an occasional fight, but no one really got pounded. The girls, however, were
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another story. All a bunch of Japs. Yes I know, it's a horrible
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generalization, but you can only put up with their trite opinions and
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irritating personalities for so long. They were all barely old enough to get
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into a PG-13 movie, yet most had already had their first nose job. I remember
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this one girl who spilled a soda on the floor of the bus we travelled in.
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Someone asked this girl if she had considered picking up the soda.
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"Look at the color of my skin - I'm not black," she replied walking away.
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Though no else did, I found that little comment to be amusing. I felt
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real proud that I lived in a country where a young girl, only 14 years old, had
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learned how to blindly hate before she learned how to drive.
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But the absolute best part of the teen tour came at the end, with only two
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days left. (And two days till my fifthteenth birthday!) The tour was coming
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to an end, things were hectic, so I wasn't able to room with my friends one
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night. I don't remember my roommates' names that night, but I'll tell you
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about them. One of them was this really small kid who lived somewhere around
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Philadelphia. He looked like the type of person who attended Cub Scout
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meetings well into his thirties. He was also the type of person you saw on
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"A Current Affair" after he shotgunned his entire third period French class.
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My other roommate was this fat kid from Manhattan. When I say fat I mean FAT.
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I ain't talking about "pleasantly plump" or "chubby" or "big boned" or "gland
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problems", I mean lard-ass city. In the 250-300 pound range, definitely. This
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kid was so fat that his stomach went into a different zip code. Anyway, all
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three of us are in this motel room. There're two beds and a cot. The fat kid
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says he's got to have a bed because of his back problem. Ok, no argument from
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me. So me and the really small kid from Pennsylvania start arguing over who
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should get the other bed. One thing led to another and the really small kid
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pulled a knife on me. The knife, property of the fat kid, was just laying on a
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dresser. So here's the situation: There's an argument and the really small kid
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from Pennsylvania threatens me with a knife. But the thing is, the really
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small kid is just kidding around. He's threatening me in jest, with not the
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slightest, most minuscule intention of stabbing me. This is obvious to me.
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It's obvious to the fat kid. Here's where things get exciting.
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Y'know how guys do really stupid macho things while a girl is watching, in
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order to impress her? That's what I did. Except there was no girl watching,
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just the fat kid. Even though the really small kid was fooling around with the
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knife, I attempted to take it away from him with deadly force. (I'm not going
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to list all the movies I saw where the hero disarms a knife-wielding enemy!)
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Unfortunately, since I'm such a rank amateur, the really small kid got stabbed
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in the hand. Oops! The fat kid, utilizing some first-aid training, bandaged
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the really small kid, while I had run out of the room looking for help. But I
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wasn't looking for help, I was looking for someone onto whom I could unload the
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details of my first (and last) knife fight. I had disarmed a scrawny little
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wimp who PRETENDED to threaten me with a knife, yet for some reason I felt like
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Rambo. The first person I found was a kid from Long Island named Doug. How
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many times have you heard someone say, "This heavy metal stuff... it makes kids
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worship Satan!" Usually, we laugh at people who make statements like that, but
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after getting to know Doug, I never laughed at those "Conservative Christian
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Nazis" ever again. Doug was a big fan of heavy metal. He liked Judas Priest,
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Iron Maiden, Motley Crue, Ozzy, etc. Doug was also a big fan of Satanism. To
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his credit, he seemed genuinely interested in the subject. He was always
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reading the Satanic Bible, and by the end of the summer, Doug had explained the
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principles of Satanism to everyone on the teen tour. Doug assured us that
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after he graduated college, he would move in with a real Satanic "family."
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Doug now has Leukemia. He'll be dead by the end of the year, and when he
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does die, I hope he gets to go to Hell because that's what he always dreamed
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of.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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I decided it was time to go home and get myself organized. I was just a
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school boy looking for a change of pace from the daily grind of high school.
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Now I was caught up in this irritating little mystery. Someone had killed the
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Faye Dunaway-looking woman and deposited her head in my locker. Someone had
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also left a nice little note on my car. This mystery was irritating, yes, but
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I was not about to let it go unsolved.
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When I walked into the house, my mother and father were waiting for me.
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Dad's been getting into Scientology recently and therefore has been acting a
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little goofy. He held an official Scientology E-Meter (tm) (list price:
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$4,375) in his hand.
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"Son, I think you're having trouble with engrams."
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"Dad, there's no such thing as engrams."
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"Son, there are engrams, I read it in a book."
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"Dad, I read in a book that the Holocaust never happened. Doesn't mean
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it's true."
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"Son, this book is Dianetics."
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"Dad, did it ever occur to you that L. Ron Hubbard was more interested in
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making money off dopes than discovering the secrets of the universe?"
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"Son, if you'd just let me give you this Personality Test to determine
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whether Scientology is right for you...."
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"Dad, go release some body thetans or something," were my last words as I
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walked to my room.
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My dad tried to enter my room. Finding the door locked he began to shout
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through the door.
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"I know what your problem is. It's this heavy metal rock you kids listen
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to. I know all about Motley Crue and Ozzy Osbourne and KISS, I read about
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them in People! Did you ever hear of People! Does that meet your intellectual
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standards, Mr. Mensa Society? I could care less if you're a devil worshiper,
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but let me tell you that we lock our bedroom door at night and take the knives
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out of the kitchen so don't try anything funny, mister!"
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The fact that their parents were spending the family earnings to achieve
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Operating Thetan Level 8 might worry kids, but I had a steady income. The
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video store job was nothing, income from my grade-school pornography sales
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would get me through college.
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I turned on the stereo, grabbed paper and pen, and laid down in bed. My
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memories of the night with the Faye Dunaway-looking woman were essential to
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solving the mystery. I decided to try a flow of consciousness experiment. I
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would relax and my mind would recall every single detail of that night. The
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pen would automatically start to write. A slow, trippy psychedelic song came
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on, and I began to chant. I slipped into another state of being. I was
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nowhere, and yet I was everywhere. The crucifixion of Christ and the final
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destruction of the Earth were visible to me in the same moment. Planets in
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galaxies far, far, far, away grew and withered in front of me. The pen started
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to move. Ecstasy overtook me, euphoria could not describe my emotions.
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Stonehenge passed beneath my feet. I was turned on, tuned in, and dropping
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out. The bass line to "Truckin'" reverberated through my skull. The pen was
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now scribbling at a furious rate. A multitude of atrocities passed before my
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sight, I saw the Nazi concentration camps, I viewed the Kurds being massacred,
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I observed all 219 minutes of _Heaven's Gate_.
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The song ended. The pen stopped. The piece of paper had on it my inner
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consciousness, the net sum of my knowledge. It looked like this:
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------|--------|------
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Well, I also believe in Santa Claus.
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______________________________________________________________________________
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So I'm on this plane to Florida. Some relative died and I had to go to
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the funeral. I really wasn't too close to the corpse. Whenever we chatted he
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would ask pointless questions like, "So, how's the soccer team doing?" The
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last time I played soccer was in the third grade. And he would ask, "So what's
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your best score in Pac-Man?" A quick smile-and-nod combination usually got him
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to go bother someone else.
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There was only one thing of interest going on in the plane. Some lady was
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trying to control her two bratty daughters. It was the classic situation:
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husband up in first class flirting with stewardesses, wife in coach taking care
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of the kids. The kids were pretty wild. Chucking ice cubes all over, knocking
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over the food trays, pressing all the buttons. Then the mother, having cracked
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some time ago, asked the older daughter if she would like to sit on the wing of
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the plane. The older daughter, about five, looked at her mother in disbelief.
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The mother, however, was not joking. She started screaming quite loudly.
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"C'mon do you want to sit on the wing? Look how nice it is outside. Why don't
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you go outside? Look how nice it is! It's just like a swing set!" By now,
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the attention of the surrounding passengers was focused solely on this ranting
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mother. The mother, now aware that she was the star attraction, grabbed the
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older daughter with one hand, and with the other hand tried to open the plane
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window. Now the mother knew that plane windows don't open like bus windows,
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but that didn't stop her. Still, I took no chances. Having seen _Twilight
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Zone-The Movie_ (1983), where a guy shot out the window with a .38, I knew
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things could get pretty hectic very quickly. Wisely planning ahead, I promptly
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stuffed my bag into the overhead compartment, and then put the seat belt on
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extra tight. Ready for the upcoming cabin depressurization, I noticed that the
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mother was now trying to stuff her daughter through the window, grinding her
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once-cute face into the glass, all to the dismay of the onlooking passengers.
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Despite the blood, even this got dull fast, so I took a nap.
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I had never been to a funeral before, but I assumed the whole thing could
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be wrapped up in one day. For some reason, the whole family went to the
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funeral home the day before the funeral was to be held. I guess we were going
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to a "pre-funeral." To my surprise, there were a whole bunch of people at the
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funeral home waiting for us. I'm not sure why they all came, but I guess it's
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like coming to the ball park early to see batting practice. I immediately
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ditched everyone and went looking for something to do. I figured there'd be
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some video games or something to fool around with. Well, I soon discovered
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that funeral homes don't have video games. I couldn't find the embalming room
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either. I was hoping I could watch some poor stiff get his fluids sucked out
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or something. So I made my way to the bathroom. I was instantly impressed by
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the cleanliness of the bathroom. I sat down in a stall and took out a pen in
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order to deface the bathroom. I wasn't sure what to write. I thought about
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drawing demonic pentagrams. Or maybe, "My name is Hugh G. Rection!" Instead,
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I wrote, "If you're reading this, someone is dead." Still, I was bored.
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I was now sitting in the main room with a whole bunch of people, family
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and non-family. I was shocked by the phoniness of the whole scene. Everyone
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obviously had better places to be, but they all put on a show of sadness. Why?
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I guess because that's what you're supposed to do. The worst phony was the
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widow. She'd be laughing and talking about recipes until someone new came into
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the room, at which point the widow would run crying over to the newcomers and
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hug them. The widow was intent on making sure EVERYONE saw how grieved she
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appeared to be. I can see where she's coming from, however. Anyone would have
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trouble feeling sorrow after they had just acquired a few million dollars from
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a dead spouse. All in attendance acted in the "traditional" manner. And what
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was the "traditional" manner? What the movies portrayed funerals as. I'm sure
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that if the movies showed people playing Monopoly and lighting farts at these
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things, then I bet I'd be sitting down right now with a "Get Out Of Jail
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Free card" and a lighter between my butt cheeks. All I know is that when I
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die, there'd better be a band at the funeral.
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Unfortunately, my aunt sat down next to me. She's a total mental case.
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It's hard to describe her. She's not a lesbian but she'll NEVER get married.
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My aunt is the type who will die alone and penniless. The only thing she cares
|
|
about are animals. She's always leeching money from the family to pay for her
|
|
pets. For my birthday she always gives me animal books. The only one I ever
|
|
read was "Animal Farm." She works at an animal hospital in Manhattan, and
|
|
starts to make small talk about it.
|
|
|
|
"So you're going to NYU. That's near the animal hospital," she began.
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|
|
|
"Yup."
|
|
|
|
"Do you like the city?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I haven't really lived there yet, but I th-"
|
|
|
|
"I hate it," she said cutting me off.
|
|
|
|
Silence from me. She continues.
|
|
|
|
"It's dirty... it's unsafe. I hate going there every day. I hate my
|
|
life. I wish someone would end it all."
|
|
|
|
Uh, I thought this was small talk? I wave down some imaginary person and
|
|
leave my aunt. She's still talking to herself ten minutes later.
|
|
|
|
The actual funeral the next day was boring. Having read _The Stranger_, I
|
|
made sure to look remorseful. I didn't want to end up like Mersault. Killed
|
|
an Arab, but put on trial because he didn't cry at a funeral.
|
|
|
|
Anyways, I can sincerely recommend Gutterman's Inc. ("Four Generations of
|
|
Family Service") for your funeral arrangements. Aside from one location in
|
|
Florida, there are chapels throughout greater New York.
|
|
|
|
In Manhattan: 331 Amsterdam Ave at 76th St.
|
|
In Queens: 98-60 Queens Blvd. And 66th Ave.
|
|
In Brooklyn: 2576 Flatbush Ave.
|
|
In Bronx: 1983 Grand Concourse
|
|
In Rockville Centre, LI: 175 Long Beach Road
|
|
In Woodbury, LI: 8000 Jericho Turnpike
|
|
|
|
To the departed whom we now remember, may peace and bliss be granted in
|
|
life eternal. May they find grace and mercy before the Lord of Heaven and
|
|
Earth. May their souls rejoice in that ineffable good which God has laid up
|
|
for those who fear Him, and may their memory be a blessing unto those who
|
|
treasure it.
|
|
|
|
Amen.
|
|
|
|
Thanks for coming, boys! American Express only, please.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
It's a Monday morning. In the school cafeteria. My one chance at solving
|
|
this mess is to find one of the houses I stopped at during my night with the
|
|
Faye Dunaway-looking woman. One was the house with the big Santa Claus doll in
|
|
the middle of a rock garden. That's where the Faye Dunway-looking woman had an
|
|
argument with a teenage girl. The other house was the drug party where I
|
|
remember watching the Faye Dunway-looking woman get a tattoo. It was number
|
|
72, but I didn't know the street name. Besides being into Scientology, my Dad
|
|
is also a big Ian Fleming fan. So he's got all these off-the-wall spy devices.
|
|
I've got one right now in the school cafeteria. It's an "electronic ear." I
|
|
just point this little microphone at someone and I can hear what they're saying
|
|
exactly. I figure that there's got to be a few kids who know about the number
|
|
72 house. These kids, they come from great neighborhoods but they'd rather
|
|
wallow in decadence. As for the other house, I'm hoping that the teenage girl
|
|
who had the argument with the Faye Dunaway-looking woman goes to this school.
|
|
I can hear the entire cafeteria. I've got the electronic ear. Damn straight.
|
|
|
|
"...school is like a prison! They called my doctor to make sure I was
|
|
there! Is that legal? Can I sue?"
|
|
|
|
"...be funny if the guy coming for the Students Against Drunk Driving
|
|
assembly got hit by a drunk driver on the way to school!"
|
|
|
|
"So I got the fresh bass pumping, and we're cruising the Bronx... Bronx
|
|
River Parkway that is..."
|
|
|
|
"...y'know? So the cop pulls us over, y'know. And we got the keg in the
|
|
car, y'know. And the grass, and the..."
|
|
|
|
"Oh my God! There were so many cute guys at..."
|
|
|
|
"...93-to-1 girl-to-guy ratio at this school!"
|
|
|
|
"...Mom walks in, but we turned the VCR off before she..."
|
|
|
|
"...concert last night, this spliff was so huge..."
|
|
|
|
"We went to the craziest place last night, 72 Caligula Road. The place
|
|
was nuts!"
|
|
|
|
I keep the electronic ear steady. This must be the place I'm looking for.
|
|
Why would someone name a road after Bob Guiccione's $15 million 1979 flop,
|
|
_Caligula_? Worry about it later.
|
|
|
|
"The people at this place were like total hippies. They thought it was
|
|
like Woodstock or something. But they were cool guys. They kept giving us
|
|
beers and pot, and I think Chris screwed some drunk slut. It was awesome. We
|
|
gotta get more people next time. We'll kick some serious ass. I stole this
|
|
plant out of the kitchen, and this bootleg tape of the '85 Meadowlands show..."
|
|
|
|
I heard enough, 72 CALIGULA Road. That's where I was going. Just a quick
|
|
stop home to get a baseball bat for protection and then it would be time to get
|
|
down to business. As for the other house where the teenage girl had the
|
|
argument with the Faye Dunaway-looking woman, I'd deal with that soon enough.
|
|
|
|
I stopped at my locker to get my books for accounting class. Accounting
|
|
was getting more and more outlandish with each passing day. At the beginning
|
|
of class, the woman teacher would stand in the middle of the room and announce
|
|
something along the lines of: "My husband cheated on me last night," or, "I'm
|
|
having P.M.S. Don't bother me," or some other basic female-orientated crux.
|
|
|
|
After that she would lock herself in her office and read lingerie
|
|
catalogues, Frederick's of Hollywood or something. I once stole one of them
|
|
and sold it to a horny ninth grader for five dollars. We never were assigned
|
|
any work. Everyone just gabbed about nothing for the whole period. Except me.
|
|
I did the accounting work anyway. I like things that end up neat and orderly.
|
|
|
|
I opened my locker to get my accounting books, and I instantly saw that I
|
|
no longer had to worry about finding the teenage girl from the first house.
|
|
|
|
Her decapitated head was in my locker.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
I remember the last time I saw a hardcore matinee at CBGB's. Most people
|
|
don't know what hardcore is. First, it's got nothing to do with metal.
|
|
Hardcore was what followed punk. Punk rock got big here in the early '80s. We
|
|
Americans did it a lot more intense than those wimpy Brits. So they started
|
|
calling it hardcore-punk. As time went on, hardcore and punk split up and
|
|
became two separate entities. In New York City, for example, there's a big
|
|
difference between a punk rock band and a hardcore band. There's also some
|
|
animosity between the punks and the hardcores. So this place, CBGB's, had
|
|
weekly hardcore shows every Sunday afternoon, three p.m., five dollars. Show
|
|
your ID at the door. You gotta be sixteen to get in, otherwise bring your
|
|
mother. By now, hardcore has gotten pretty popular. This CBGB's was
|
|
jam-packed every Sunday afternoon with people from all over. The five
|
|
boroughs, New Jersey, Connecticut, Westchester County, they came from all over
|
|
to see the famous CBGB's hardcore matinees. But when you stick a bunch of
|
|
hardcore lunatics in a hot, crowded place like CBGB's, fights start. The
|
|
fights got worse and worse as time went on. The club was no longer able to
|
|
control the violence. Plus, the club couldn't make money at the bar, because
|
|
most of the kids were under twenty-one. I remember the final show. The
|
|
headlining band was an old band that hadn't played New York in a long time.
|
|
Fights started instantly. The club turned the sound system off and kicked
|
|
everyone out, but not before announcing that there would be no more hardcore
|
|
matinees ever again. Everyone spilled outside, and more fights started. I
|
|
stood on the corner of Bleecker & Bowery for a long time, long after everyone
|
|
else had gone home tired from fighting. I walked back into CBGB's. The owner
|
|
of the club, the guy that had been running the club for over eighteen years,
|
|
was inside.
|
|
|
|
"Why won't there be any more hardcore shows?" I asked him.
|
|
|
|
"Well, all good things must come to an end. That's the way things work.
|
|
All bad things must come to an end also. Where there's a start, there's a
|
|
finish."
|
|
|
|
"But why?" I persisted.
|
|
|
|
"Because I said so, that's why. Now get the hell out of here before I
|
|
kick your ass, you little turd."
|
|
|
|
All bad things must come to an end also. I never forgot that little
|
|
lesson.
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
It was after midnight. I was on my way to 72 Caligula Road. There was no
|
|
music playing. There were no other cars on the road. I started to space out
|
|
and lose concentration on the driving. I was feeling somewhat joyous.
|
|
Finally, I'd get some answers. I was twenty minutes away from 72 Caligula
|
|
Road. I tried not to think about the teenage girl who had an argument with the
|
|
Faye Dunaway-looking woman. The decapitated head of the teenage girl was in my
|
|
locker. I left it in there. I left the locker open, too. I hope someone
|
|
found it. I don't care any more. I only care about 72 Caligula Road. That's
|
|
where the answer is. Answer to this mystery. The mystery of the two
|
|
decapitated heads in my locker. The mystery of what I did that night with the
|
|
Faye Dunaway-looking woman. The mystery of the psychotic note that was left on
|
|
my car. I looked up and saw a police car right behind me, lights flashing.
|
|
Godammit, why wasn't I paying attention? The speedometer tells me I'm only
|
|
going fifty in a fifty-five zone, what's this cop want? He turns on the siren
|
|
and we both pull over. I roll the down the window, the cop walks to my car.
|
|
I see his name plate. It says "Lipschitz." I'm tempted to say, "If you're
|
|
Lipschitz, then my ass talks."
|
|
|
|
"Going a little fast, aren't we, son?"
|
|
|
|
"Was only going fifty."
|
|
|
|
"That's not what my radar gun says."
|
|
|
|
"Oh yeah, can I see it?"
|
|
|
|
"Uhh... I'm not allowed to let you see that."
|
|
|
|
"Ok, tell me, have you had your radar gun calibrated recently?"
|
|
|
|
He takes out his pistol and puts it up to my temple.
|
|
|
|
"Son, this is the most powerful handgun in the world. Now I bet you're
|
|
thinking to yourself, 'Did he fire five shots or six. Wel-"
|
|
|
|
"Save the Dirty Harry speech, what's your beef with me?"
|
|
|
|
"Chief Friendly wants to see you."
|
|
|
|
Who in the name of Sammy Fox is Chief Friendly?
|
|
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
I'm in Chief Friendly's office. He's the police chief of this town. His
|
|
last name really is Friendly. I didn't see any cells when I came in. I walked
|
|
down a long hallway, and now I'm in a long room. There're two cops watching
|
|
_The Lost Boys_ (1987) at the other end of the room. They really like it. I
|
|
hated it. I'm sitting across from Chief Friendly at his desk. He speaks.
|
|
|
|
"You've been causing us a whole lot of trouble, y'know that?"
|
|
|
|
"Trouble? You want to hear about trouble? First, how about having Deputy
|
|
Dawg pull me over, put a gun to my head, handcuff me, and drag me to this dump.
|
|
Ever hear of the Bill of Rights? First Ten Amendments to the Constitution?
|
|
You can learn about it in court, which is where I'm going to sue your ass. You
|
|
haven't arrested me, and now I'm going to leave. Ciao."
|
|
|
|
I get up and start to walk out.
|
|
|
|
"Hold on one second, tough guy. Before you call your lawyer, you might
|
|
want to take under consideration that we've got substantial evidence that leads
|
|
us to believe you've started a collection of decapitated heads."
|
|
|
|
I sit back down.
|
|
|
|
"Decapitated heads? Try comic books."
|
|
|
|
"Comic books. Of course. Let's see... you had a wild night with a
|
|
certain woman a few weeks ago, didn't you? When people are drunk, they do some
|
|
mighty crazy things."
|
|
|
|
"I don't get drunk, and I never had any wild night. I've seen enough
|
|
Hitchcock movies to know when an innocent man is being framed for something he
|
|
didn't do."
|
|
|
|
"No wild nights. Really? I've been thinking about that video store you
|
|
work at. Lots of lonely old women go to video stores. Lonely old women who
|
|
might be interested in some male companionship. Specifically your
|
|
companionship."
|
|
|
|
"Well, there were was the Faye Dunaway-looking woman...."
|
|
|
|
I blew it right there. I knew it and so did Chief Friendly. Up 'till
|
|
now, I was doing o.k. Chief Friendly was toying with me. He knew about
|
|
everything, but by mentioning the Faye Dunaway-looking woman, I gave him a
|
|
distinct advantage. He was going to tear me to shreds.
|
|
|
|
"'Faye Dunway-looking woman', eh? Now that I think about it, she DID look
|
|
like Faye Dunaway. Now I'd say she looks more like Sharon Tate, don't you
|
|
think so?"
|
|
|
|
He's got me against the ropes. Cover up.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't do anything with her. I went to her house. She started
|
|
offering me weird drugs, so I left."
|
|
|
|
"That's all that happened?"
|
|
|
|
"Yup. I swear. Scout's Honor."
|
|
|
|
"That's good. Real good. I've been watching you, I'd know if you were
|
|
lying. I'd know."
|
|
|
|
He believes me. He really thinks I spent five minutes with her and went
|
|
home. You aren't so smart after all, are you, Friendly? Confidently, I take
|
|
the offensive.
|
|
|
|
"You've been following me? The Faye Dunaway-looking woman also?
|
|
|
|
"So many questions, so many questions. I'm always reading in the paper
|
|
about how today's youth are so disinterested in things. All they want to do is
|
|
smoke dope and listen to Black Sabbath, but you, my friend, are one bright
|
|
young man."
|
|
|
|
"Like Elvis? Ever buy any of his CD's?"
|
|
|
|
"I saw him in Vegas. '71. Best show I ever witnessed. Damn, he was
|
|
good."
|
|
|
|
"The note on my car?"
|
|
|
|
"You're rambling, boy, you're rambling."
|
|
|
|
"What have I done to deserve this special treatment?"
|
|
|
|
"That information is given out on a need-to-know basis, and you most
|
|
definitely do not need to know."
|
|
|
|
A pause in the conversation. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen
|
|
seconds. If I'm going to die, I'm going to die like a man. Like John Wayne.
|
|
The Duke always showed guts right to the end.
|
|
|
|
"So now what, Chief Friendly? You cut off my head and put it in someone
|
|
else's locker?"
|
|
|
|
"I thought about that, but you look like a nice kid, so I'll tell you
|
|
what: You forget about everything that's happened, this conversation, all the
|
|
women, all the heads, all that stuff, and I can guarantee you'll be around to
|
|
graduate in the spring."
|
|
|
|
He took out a BIG hunting knife. I mean BIG. And SHARP.
|
|
|
|
"Sure, no problem. Anything to help out the police."
|
|
|
|
"You're a nice kid, but like all kids, you're a liar."
|
|
|
|
He swung the hunting knife down at the table. When I looked down I saw
|
|
that my right pinky was a quater-inch shorter. I fell to the floor in agony,
|
|
trying to stop the bleeding by digging my hand into the rug.
|
|
|
|
"Get up, you pussy! When I was a kid, my Daddy cut off ALL my fingers
|
|
every time I got a bad grade in Geography. He made me sew 'em back on also!
|
|
With my eyes closed!"
|
|
|
|
I lay writhing on the floor, but was able to look up at him. Right into
|
|
his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Here's some advice to you, son. You start calling the state police, or
|
|
some fancy Jew lawyer, I'm gonna bring you back here. You got plenty of
|
|
fingers, and I got plenty of knives. Now get out of here. And remember, a
|
|
good policeman is a good friend. Have a nice day."
|
|
|
|
What happened to serve and protect?
|
|
______________________________________________________________________________
|
|
|
|
I'm sitting in the video store. Months later. I'm watching _Where The
|
|
Buffalo Roam_ (1980). It's based on the life of Hunter S. Thompson. It's an
|
|
awful movie. There's no sensible sequence of events. Bill Murray is awful as
|
|
Hunter S. Thompson. It's a slow night in the store. There's a big super-duper
|
|
Blockbuster video store right across the street, so no one comes to my store.
|
|
I like it that way. All I do is watch movies and get paid for it. I've
|
|
cleaned up, the store closes in ten minutes, I'm watching this movie. An old
|
|
guy walks in. He looks like David Niven. He doesn't look at the boxes, he
|
|
walks right up to the desk and asks me a question.
|
|
|
|
"Excuse me. I was wondering if my wife has been in the store today?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, what's she look like?"
|
|
|
|
"I've been told she looks like Faye Dunaway."
|
|
|
|
"Never saw her."
|
|
|
|
He walks out. I close up the store ten minutes later. I walk to my car
|
|
smiling. Tomorrow's a new day. And where there's a new day, there's a new
|
|
movie to watch.
|
|
|
|
Ain't life grand?
|
|
|
|
_ _ ____________________________________________________________________
|
|
/((___))\|Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362|NIHILISM..............517/546-0585|
|
|
[ x x ] |Paisley Pasture......916/673-8412|Ripco II..............312/528-5020|
|
|
\ / |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194|The Works.............617/861-8976|
|
|
(' ') |Lunatic Labs.........213/655-0691|Condemned Reality.....618/397-7702|
|
|
(U) |====================================================================|
|
|
.ooM |Copr. 1991 cDc communications by The Pusher 07/20/91-#167|
|
|
\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away. FIVE YEARS of cDc|
|
|
|