Monolithic Horizon; Act 1: Heathen – Chapter 5: A Better Future

03 Oct 2009

When I first met John Seifer, it was at a press conference.  This was after a failed assassination attempt on yours truly.   The speech was my glorious assurance to the people that those responsible were brought to justice and that the threat has passed, but my heart wasn’t in it.   The speech was flat, but no one seemed to notice that I didn’t even seem to believe what I was saying anymore.  This is because I realized that I had become so used to lying that it came natural to show the correct inflection and emotion at times, like a reflex.   While I didn’t summon up any feeling, there was no difference.   This made me wonder what the point in me being a figurehead was.   It was clear no one really paid attention to the government anymore, the people more that likely felt that I was totally irrelevant.  Therefore I eventually came to the realization that I was most likely going to die.  It wasn’t, as they say, a matter of how but when.   The Commission’s market research data showed that most people didn’t even realize the government was still in operation, and therefore my termination was inevitable.   That’s what Seifer told me after the conference was over.   Off the record.  It  was the first time anyone talked to me like I was anything more than a tool, so I suppose that my guard was lowered slightly.  Maybe that gave me the false pretense that he actually cared if I lived or died.   Which, I should have known was far from the case.

This was over a year ago.

We only met about a dozen times, and each time it was off the record.  From what I was led to believe about that sort of thing, with enough money you could say and do whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t be used against you.  Which, was rather stupid in retrospect, but I was desperate for someone to talk to.   Desperate to speak about the things that concerned me after ten years, almost seven of which I felt like a walking corpse, barely capable of functioning without being told what to do and where to go.   Over the last three years the headaches would get more frequent and more terrible, a cackling electric fire across my synapses, feeling like my brain had been replaced like a teeming swarm of fire ants.   The thing about the noises, is that I could hear faint sounds, almost like voices.   Yet, it wasn’t English or slang or anything human.  It kinda sounded like a phone connection.  A modem.  You see some of those in the more low tech areas of Europa.  For the like of me I don’t know how I knew that.   There’s a lot of memories in my head, unbound like that.  Little fragments of information, little factoids but they aren’t based on any experience of mine.  This, combined with my normal experiences day in and out has accumulated over the years into this growing hatred for The Commission.   Like lighting a waterproof fuse, once ignited there is only one possible outcome.   

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The Times, Theys a’ Changin’ Sis

15 Sep 2009

Ten years ago, I was a hurt, lost, stupid, angry person.   This was the first time that I began to write.   It was on a blog site called opendiary.com.   When I was that age, around 16-17 I was so angry.   It was eating me up inside like a cancer.   There were all those cliche’ feelings that one normally associates with being a teenager.   The largest and most prominent feeling was that no one cared about or understood me.   My family and I had nothing in common, and in being adopted, I discovered that in some way I felt like I didn’t belong.   Still don’t.   Likewise my school days were awkward for the same reasons, but in the group of misfits that hung around with they were loyal to me and they understood me, to a degree.   I lost contact with a lot of people that I really got along with, time rolls on, you know.   I turned to blogging because it was anonymous, I could say how I really felt to people and see what they really thought about me without the fear of being lied to or used or whatever.

The schools.  My parents, my real parents.  My life.   How I looked.  There were a lot of things that were wrong with young Chris.   My adopted father left me.  My mother made me live with my control freak grandparents, and this is where the story began for a lot of people.   One thing that I have noticed about personal blogs is that most people speak in vague generalities about their lives, delving rarely into the specifics.   It’s like how you would imagine a support group meeting would go.   Everyone already knows why they are there, everyone already can infer the details based on subtext.   The ones that didn’t do that were the ones I read.   People who were there to infer through subtext.   People I could relate to.

People like Morgan (aka Dublin Sublime aka Lachlan), who became a lesbian stripper sometime between then and now.   Nothing wrong with that, she seems happy about the whole thing.   Fanboy wanted to be a journalist, he said it was to ‘give the weak a voice.’   I don’t know if he was successful in that endeavor.  When I first posted my story, Monolithic Horizon, the first chapter, unedited, raw, sloppy, he read it.   I always assumed that because it was so awful he avoided reading me from that point on.   Probably wrong about that.   There was old real life friends that between then and now have faded away.   There was Serenity, no seriously that was her name, whom wrote about being so lost and confused that when out with friends she ended up in car wrecks and drinking binges.   Sometimes I wonder what ever happened to her and if she’s alright.  Belowblackstar, Jesus Chrysler, and Wire were all roommates.   Blackstar became an egotist who hurt his friends with his selfish behavior.   On my last site I eventually had to rid myself of him.   Jesus was a mysterious figure, he faded in and out again.   I don’t remember much.   Wire… Wire is a bastard.  That’s all I’ll say on that matter lest I go off on a tangent.  Doomed, doomed was an odd fellow from Australia, humorous and weird, but ultimately dropped off the radar.

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Dreams of the Future

13 Sep 2009

Picture a skyline, and it goes on for as long as possible till it’s cut off by the edge of the horizon.   Even at that distance you can see great buildings and towers rising up like giants to worship the rising sun.   The buildings, the skyline, is not pristine and beautiful.   It’s dirty and grimy, and in that sky you can see bridges, little specks of life moving about, cables hanging, things moving.   Platforms and odd-looking vehicles.   Signs everywhere, a suspended sea of architecture and neon extending for what seems and feels like forever.

The future is not something I view with much hope in terms of progress.  When I see the future I imagine in some cases a mere continuation of all the crap and garbage we have to put up with now only on a larger scale.  Sci-fi authors, in the 40s and 50s seemed to have some sort of uptopian delusion wherein they pictured the future full of chrome and high-technology complete with self-cleaning houses and flying Cadillacs.  My grandfather used to ground me a lot when I lived with him and as a result the only things I could spend time with were old sci-fi and western novels.   Believe me, when I tell you he had a lot of them.   Apparently he’d buy whatever the public library would be phasing out of their book stock at the little store they had for a huge discount.  Most of these books were not classics by any means, don’t get me wrong some well-known works were in my Grandfather’s library.  H.G. Well’s War of the Worlds. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Some various works of Issac Asimov.  Tons of Louis L’amour westerns, which, from what my grandfather says, is basically the most accurate western fare you can find.  The rest was all stuff with corny titles and features such as hilarious cover art depicting some dude with a mullet on mars holding a ray gun with a fawning space-babe on his shoulder.

So you can imagine me, grounded for something stupid, curled up in a ball in the back bedroom reading nothing but old dreams of the future day after day during most of the year.   A lot of these books were from the 40s through 80s.   Almost nothing current but I made due.   When reading these books some were surprisingly good, some were utterly forgettable.   The future was a shining place, filled with high technology and adventure.   When I was older this stuff could be real.   I could leave earth and go into the space fleet, scour new territories, explore the stars.   As time went on and I kept reading westerns as well.   I began to see romantic parallels between cowboys and space explorers.   Rough and tumble types always using thier meager resources and thier wits to save the day and get the girl.  

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Killing Literature, One Fang at a Time

07 Jul 2009

I know, I know, the title for this post is awfully dramatic.   I know that it’s a bold claim to make that now, officially, literature is dead, dying, or a fucking zombie shambling around the countryside as a hollow shell of it’s former self.   Many people would disagree, but that’s only because not everyone has seen the utter horse shit on sale at the bookstore that I did.   I want you to sit back, dear reader, and allow the following image to wash over.   Relax, empty your mind and focus ahead only at this text and the preceding image.   Behold:

... and reailty BITES!  Get it?   NYUCK NYUCK

Now, if the first thought in your head is ‘wow that looks like it could be pretty cool,’ I want you to do me a favor.   Take your hand, ball it into a fist, and punch yourself right in the face.  Besides my gut instinct to burst into a fit of mad laughter, there are several things gazing upon this majestic piece of surly Shakespearean art does for me.

First, it disturbs me, deeply.   If you notice the top of the image states ‘New York Times Bestselling Author,’  a title, which means nothing anymore anyway.   Lets face it, every shitty self-help book and half assed novel is apparently a ‘best seller.’  Just because people read it doesn’t mean it’s good.   I mean the Ghost Rider movie made money, but it still sucked so much dick it practically imploded on itself sucking Nick Cage’s carrier further into an event horizon of complete epic failure.   Basically the ‘New York Times Bestseller’ tag on a book just tells you that it’s popular amoung the same populace that thinks Micheal Bay is a good director, Adam Sandler is funny, and voted to elect George W. Bush president … TWICE.

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Hobo Wars Episode 5: The Bumpire Strikes Back

03 May 2009

In my previous article I stated that the homeless would not fuck with me again.   Right now I am sad to report that those words were a tad bit premature.   Now I know how Bush felt when he addressed the US a few months into the Iraq War with a giant ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner in the background; that, by the way, he totally knew nothing about.  You see, I failed to listen to the sage advice of many famous tacticians from the past.   That advice was, simply, don’t pick fights with people who have nothing to lose because there is nothing to be gained from fighting them and no way to make them stop.   The homeless, apparently, couldn’t care less if you stink up their little hobo carts and they don’t seem to mind too badly if you throw them out.    They’ll just find another cart to steal and fill with random junk and garbage, and bring it back.   Frustrating, kind of like a mongrel dog you just want to go away, so you pitch a stick and the ugly thing just keeps bringing it back no matter how many times you throw it into traffic.

The battlements of the mighty Hobocity.

So, it seems that I have underestimated my homeless foes, and that they have decided to strike back by forming a grand hobo armada in the back of the building.  As I write this, there are probably somewhere in the neighborhood of 15-20 homeless people living in the lot behind they building.   They have gloriously erected a testament to the times which I lovingly refer to as ‘Hobo City’  or as one of my co-workers called it ‘Bum Fest 09.’  Hobocity is a wondrous place, where the denizens can enjoy all the perks of their downtown location, stinky old blankets adorn the fences of the lot to mark their turf, they have plentiful stolen lawn chairs on which to sit all day and contemplate things like cannibalism and optimal change harvesting locations, a nice building to use as a bathroom, and they proudly send hobo war parties out to collect change and food as well as cash registers.   You heard me.   Cash registers.   This homeless army has got ridiculous.   I thought it was bad when I first wrote about it but holy shit it’s turning into a regular sitcom.  So get this, a couple of days ago several of the hobos from hobocity wandered to a business that is literally 50 feet from the lot they are staying in, shoved their way through lines of waiting customers, and fucking grabbed the cash register and walked out like they owned the fucking thing! 

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1, 2, 3, 4… I Declare a Hobo War!

23 Apr 2009

I think I’ve mentioned that I work in the ghetto.   If I haven’t well, now I have.  I work in the ghetto.   Not even the loose definition of ghetto.   This is a full-fledged prostitute filled, mostly minority (black and Hispanic people – or as the local mechanics oh-so-cleverly call them –  ‘spooks n’ spics’) populated, drug dealer market, hobo infested, wasteland of humanity.   However, of all these nefarious elements which you find in the delicious cornucopia of human life known as downtown Orlando, there is one that I especially fear for their sheer number, smell, and lack of an education.   I refer, of course, to the hobos.   If you were thinking that I was talking about those damn ‘spooks n’ spics,’ congratulations… you’re racist!

The hobos, yes.  I hate hobos.   They are thicker than fleas in the glorious city of Orlando.   A city, it should be noted, that’s board of tourism refers to as ‘the city beautiful,’ which is such a distortion of the truth that I’m surprised that more people haven’t sued them for false advertising.   I have a fairly good reason for hating hobos, aside from the fact that they lie about being hobos.   You know what I mean if you’d ever been approached by one.   Some smelly dude with a scruffy beard and no teeth will come up to you with some convoluted story about how his family needs bus fare back to where-the-fuck-ever or that they need a few bucks to rent a cab to get to the airport.   Like anyone believes them.   Nothing worse than needing money for booze and cheep bum hookers but to always try the ‘bus fare’ story, poor form Orlando homeless, poor form.  That’s not the reason for my hate of the homeless local to this area.   I’m sure there are some nice homeless guys, full for worldly wisdom and perfectly sane, in fantasy land; however, over here you get the best inner-city bums Orlando has to offer.   The ones that will walk down lanes of traffic at red-lights banging on your car’s window and yelling insults at you if you don’t give them change, or the ones, that have made me hate the homeless in Orlando…. the ones that shit on your building.

'The City Beautiful,' my ass.

You heard me, shitting on the building.  

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Random Quote

Ambition often puts men upon doing the meanest offices; so climbing is performed in the same posture with creeping.

— Jonathan Swift
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