Thursday, August 16, 2007

Psychotic? Moi?

‘When I am King, you will be the first against the wall…’

Paranoid Android / Radiohead

The Cops took everything. Bastards. A guy can’t even service society anymore with the drugs it so obviously needs without getting put behind bars. I’m only Mother’s little helper not Daddy’s big terror. Thanks a lot Mr. George Bush for, ‘The War Against Terror’, which, incidentally, spells out TWAT. Know what I think of the government’s infinite battle with the Corrupt? – When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself – think Wilde said that, but he was bound to wasn’t he? Apparently he had a lot of disagreeing critics.

Well, the worst is literally behind me so I walk away from the pigsty and wallow in my immediate freedom. There is nothing like freedom is there? Once the caged animal is let out there is in its eyes all the wonders of Earth refreshed, all the apples once again there for the plucking, all the Gods once again to fool. What is freewill without freedom?: the tortures of the damned.

The sky is glaring and leaves in your vision those circles of sunlight colour that you must have seen on that Sony advert, you know the one I mean, the one with a million derelict balls bouncing down San Francisco. It’s exactly like that. I have no technical terms because it’s one of those things in my thingamajig/wotshisface files of memory. I remember this one time, seems a long time back, when Miss Patsy (her of the fuller mammary glands; every toilet-break utilized) was teaching us Biology and explaining atoms and micro-organisms and bacteria and fuck knows what but my ears pricked up when she said that the naked human eye cannot see this minute cycle of life. I remember wanting to dress my eyes so I could see the gritty warfare of my busy brothers. It didn’t happen. And I remember how on a much later morning when I was daydreaming in class, chewing on a pencil, when I saw from the side of my eyes and coming into them from fingers of sunlight, these really tiny, really microscopic, little chains of something and I thought I had x-ray vision or something and was no ordinary mortal. Of course, I was wrong.

I digress.

I would have taken a taxi but I’m penniless. Besides, it’s always cheaper to steal and I suppose that’s why people steal. In fact, I’m sure. So I walk a little further and eye up these cars and their drivers. As a rule, I never carjack women unless in hot pursuit. This has little to do with moral grounds and a lot to do with the music selection and interiors. How the fuck is one supposed to deal with Jamaican drug-dealers while one’s in a woman’s car? They’d shoot you from a mile away just for sitting on pink seats. And the music, oh, the fucking music. Ten pence can feed an African starving child for a week; think about that the next time you buy a sixteen quid Busted or Girls Aloud CD.

This real fuckeroo in a magenta (magenta for Chrissake) Hawaiian shirt and Miami Vice sunglasses is presently honking his little horn at me and asking me to get out of the way. He’s been doing this for two minutes. What’s a man to do? So I do what I always do under such situations, I turn to face him and taking out my .9, politely shoot him in the head. I look around for any witnesses that I may have to dispose as well. There are none. Good. I have places to go. I trash him into an alley and accelerate his car.

Sean ‘Sweet & Sour’ Johnson had me know as soon as I was out that there is a contract from the Trailer Park Boys for plucking a range of cars from the streets. I really need the 30% commission that will come my way. There may be some heat from the Coppers, but nothing that cannot be ignored. Cops are those children that aspire to be superheroes but flush those dreams when they realize that superheroes don’t get pension benefits. All bark. Little bite.
I get out of the car and walk into a bar that I remember from before.

Inside, unfortunately, I stand out like a Cock at a Hen party. There are these real slime-ball characters around; you half-expect them to come out with ‘Bada-bing-bada-bang’ or some shit. Like, for example, feast your eyes on this gonk in the corner. No not that one, that one. Yes, that knob-jockey holding a cocktail. Duh. Just look at him posing before the mirror. Observe. Notice how comfortable the twat is in his Natural Habitat; in his land of reflections? He reminds me of those people you see in parties, the kind that constantly look into their own hollow eyes, hypnotized by a beauty no else will second, forever adjusting their Toni&Guy haircuts. Metro-sexual, my fucking anus; Narcissexual more like it. I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire because the boring have no right being bored.

This bastard has just pissed me even more and now I just have to teach this world a lesson. I feel like killing every Panda that won’t screw to save its species, feel like strangling every Mac using prat, feel like luring Male Models with free passion-fruit face-wash to concentration camps (something tells me there can’t be a lot of concentration happening there), feel like burning every ATM that won’t process my ‘request’, feel like I don’t want to feel anymore; just terminate. I’ll serve a revenge so cold that these bastards will be defrosting it.

Bon Appétit.

Scores to settle.

I walk towards the guy and before he can look up, I shoot him point-blank. The bullet makes a full stop on his head and before his body accepts its silly mortality and goes down, for a funny moment, his hands come up around his head like that thing from the Scream painting. Everyone in the bar goes helter-skelter and some woman shrieks like an Opera singer that has just seen the Phantom. I seek her out.
I distribute bullets to those fleeing as well.
Might as well.
You know how it is.
You knows it.

As I drive away in another stolen car, I hear sirens behind me. Ask not for whom the bell tolls; looking back confirms that they toll for me. There are five to six Police cars whistling terror unto the street and lazily catching up with Yours Truly. I go faster and faster, spilling the car into any alley that invites me. In the process, I cause accidents and hear the carnage of metal kissing metal. The cold pursuit goes on for sometime but soon I leave them behind. Obviously. Look at their cars for fuck’s sake; they spend their transportation budget on Donuts.

This neighbourhood is slightly unnerving and there are people walking around that do not look like people at all but caricatures from an another world. There is a jogger who seems to be running towards Zion and I follow him and beat him to death. In a nearby alley I see a young man in a hoodie selling drugs and I approach him and after beating him to death as well, take his drugs and his money and his gun. When I come out to this side-street there are hookers there that are walking around in a faux catwalk that only a cat binged on catnip would walk. One of them offers me horizontal dancing and I eye her up. She appears to be a Foxymoron. After some haggling, I shoot her in the head. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. A bystander who doesn’t look too innocent sees me and runs so I shoot him as well.
Jesus & His Missus; this is turning into a bloodbath.
I can hear frightened ambulances nudging in traffic and making their way down here.
I run.
I see a man who just looks like he says ‘Gosh!’ so I chase him with my gun and shoot him. I take his money. Once again everyone around starts running away. Boring. Where’re those Heroes we always hear about? The knights in shining armour? Probably watching football. In their absence this flock of sheep run towards their non-existent Shepherd, arms and feet deceiving their nervous Central Nervous System in an attempt to get as far away from me as possible. No such luck: guns were created for the sole purpose of eliminating distance.

I run by a park and look for a car. There are none for a while and then there is some asshole, who’s got Phil Collins on, braying like a donkey, and I simply can’t take it because there are enough problems in the world as it is without Phil motherfucking Collins singing and I stand before the car, pull him out of the car and beat him to death with a stray super-market trolley. I get in the car but I don’t know which way to go or where. Sean isn’t going to be in good spirits when he learns of it, I’ll bet on that and neither are the Pigs. They’ll search up my ass with a fucking light-house and make sure that I’m gone for good. But I can’t allow that...oh no, no, no, no, no. I’ve got scores to settle.
I step on it.

They make me do this, you know; I’m just a nut in a big machinery and they make their millions while I make my hundreds and everyone’s happy and it’s all survival of the fittest and law of the jungle until it’s you sitting in a fucking car going nowhere and you have a mind that doesn’t remember laughter and you’re in a comedy of terrors.
I gotta say though: too many of the fuckers. They’re everywhere. This is the essential difference between the likes of Me and the likes of Them; the simple arithmetic of survival. Me always the minority, always the one that has to get away, and Them with their silly borders & badges & laws & teams always the majority trying to stifle any laughter that hasn’t paid taxes, erase every smile that is the result of unscrupulous planning and imprison every grin that has seen sin.

Well, fuck that.
The Dog finally has his day.

I run towards a Cop car and shoot two of the dirty rats with one of their own guns. The rest of them are closing in and I’m hurt pretty bad and losing health. I feel for a moment like Scarface or Billy the Kid or some other outlaw that went rabid and had to be taken down and it makes me feel better. I feel like sending Wish-you-were-here postcards to unknown destinations and strange people. And as I run towards the park and between the foolish roses and wise trees, I remember Rhianna and how it could all have been quite different. I should be out there gifting baseball bats and ripe basketballs to my unborn children; instead, I’m here in this mess. Ah, Rhianna with her muppet disposition and jewel eyes. I wanted to save her so much from every evil my evil mind could imagine but like Lennon said, ‘Life is what happens when you’re making other plans’ and I guess I was making other plans.

I digress.

Ha, ha, look at this asshole who goes down in only one shot. No more donuts for him. And the one behind him, when he’s shot, looks at me like he can’t believe what’s just happened. I shoot all of them quite easily and it seems that this is not really over. That I can still win. A victory of the defeated.
I see a bike at one end of the road and a helicopter flirting in the sky.
The bike.
Matthew 6:33: But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.


I run for the bike and shoot everyone in between us.
This is it.
I am going to meet Sean and tell him that it’s alright. That it’s fine. That I took care of everything. That it was just one of those days. That I’m here and that’s what matters. That I got loads of money. That it was such a thrilling escape. That…that…
BANG! BANG!! Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta BANG!
They got me and quickly everything turns black. None of that life-flashing-before-your-eyes bollocks. It is quick and easy and I realize that it’s all over.

REPLAY? – asks the screen.
You bet.

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