Posted by: Captain Forehead
Upon leaving the café of conscious capture, I presumed the adventure of the day was witnessing a young man snatch an old lady’s purse. He was a long way away, but I considered pursuit in justice, until I heard one of the street dwellers call out to the running young man. “Cullen! Cullen! Hey, Cullen!” the meek man’s voice shouted desperately, almost — and perhaps — as a father pleading. If he knows his name, the badged cleaning crew can polish the mess of the purse loving young man. The day’s excitement...so I thought.
Arriving at the location of my simple rented room, a squad car from the local cleaning authority was parked halfway in the street and the driveway with flashing lights spraying away. Standing back to survey the disconcerting scene, I noticed that my roommates were packing their belongings into their vehicles and their friends’ vehicles. It did not appear to be a crime scene. It seemed the most direct answer would come from addressing the source of the instructed chaos.
Approaching the officer, who was leaning casually against the car chatting with the pert perfectly physiqued and pocked faced Patrice, a simple question was presented: “What’s going on here?”
“Do you live here?” he demanded, his demeanor turning from hopefully flirtatious to badass behind a badge.
Based upon the tone, a chuckle was in order as answer.
“Well?” he immediately demanded, placing his palms on a couple of the shooting weapons attached to his waist.
Another chuckle was the answer, which was presumed to be a less escalating response than, “What, you’re going to shoot me?”
“He’s fine. Leave him alone, he just rents a room,” she giggled to Officer Quickdraw, who saw his magnanimous gesture of civility as a moment closer to Patrice’s crotch — he did not know Patrice.
“If she says you’re good. But you better get your stuff out of there, the house will be sealed in about an hour.”
“Eviction?”
“The bank says you’re trespassing, squatting.”
“Jimmy has a lease,” Patrice interrupted.
“Either way, you guys are out.”
There was little doubt Jimmy had papers, but there was also little doubt that the papers were bogus. Jimmy was squatting and collecting rent from the rest of us. Profitable gig. We suspected this was coming, the rumors having been in the air for some time.
“I’ll be out in 15,” the doer of decency informed Officer Quickdraw
“Can I use your phone?” I asked Patrice.
“Sure.”
Having made a call and returned the phone to Patrice, I considered telling the officer that he smelled so perfectly like an officer, but advised the voice inside the menacing mind to move along. We needed to move out.
Standing about the simple room referred to as home, I wondered where all of life’s clutter had come from. I came with one small bag consisting of a work apron and a change of clothes...and some reading material. Now there is a room full of stuff. Pillows, sheets, mattresses, piles of reading material, clothes for every occasion, pencils, pens, cups, souvenirs and a whole lot of nothing. And this stuff is necessary why?
The sum of who one is exists within, absent the accoutrements we use to help the world define our presentation. The comforts of a fine mattress and superior sheets are enjoyable, but unnecessary to be present and purposeful in any moment. Accepting an upgrade from the plastic bag used to move into the room to a superior quality canvas bag, I stuffed everything figured important into the bag; picked up a couple of the better printed materials; grabbed the cash stash and a favorite pen and turned to head out the door, knowing that if I looked or scanned the room again I would find something that could not be left behind.
As she drove me to her house, some things had to be straightened out. A bed and room were not a necessity.
“I appreciate the kind generosity of your offering to allow me to reside next you and your moist chewy goodness.”
“What did you... I don’t mind, you’ve already been here.”
“No, I am not moving in with you.”
“But...”
“If that is a problem, let me out here. I will be staying with you for a short period. If the opportunity presents itself, we will engage in things that shame us and shape our memory with incredible ecstasy, but I am not moving in, I am staying with you for a short period of time.”
“How long?”
“I could leave at any moment.”
“Whatever.”
“So you’re okay with this?”
“Does it make a difference?”
There was nothing left to say. I was semitransparent again, wondering if being a transient was not a better way to go. Of course, the chewy, sticky, moistness of this soft treat could not be fully enjoyed when being a transient, and enjoying tasty treats makes life’s bitterness worth enduring.
The urges are growing. What to do to savor this treat...to extract all of the tastiness...
Arriving at the location of my simple rented room, a squad car from the local cleaning authority was parked halfway in the street and the driveway with flashing lights spraying away. Standing back to survey the disconcerting scene, I noticed that my roommates were packing their belongings into their vehicles and their friends’ vehicles. It did not appear to be a crime scene. It seemed the most direct answer would come from addressing the source of the instructed chaos.
Approaching the officer, who was leaning casually against the car chatting with the pert perfectly physiqued and pocked faced Patrice, a simple question was presented: “What’s going on here?”
“Do you live here?” he demanded, his demeanor turning from hopefully flirtatious to badass behind a badge.
Based upon the tone, a chuckle was in order as answer.
“Well?” he immediately demanded, placing his palms on a couple of the shooting weapons attached to his waist.
Another chuckle was the answer, which was presumed to be a less escalating response than, “What, you’re going to shoot me?”
“He’s fine. Leave him alone, he just rents a room,” she giggled to Officer Quickdraw, who saw his magnanimous gesture of civility as a moment closer to Patrice’s crotch — he did not know Patrice.
“If she says you’re good. But you better get your stuff out of there, the house will be sealed in about an hour.”
“Eviction?”
“The bank says you’re trespassing, squatting.”
“Jimmy has a lease,” Patrice interrupted.
“Either way, you guys are out.”
There was little doubt Jimmy had papers, but there was also little doubt that the papers were bogus. Jimmy was squatting and collecting rent from the rest of us. Profitable gig. We suspected this was coming, the rumors having been in the air for some time.
“I’ll be out in 15,” the doer of decency informed Officer Quickdraw
“Can I use your phone?” I asked Patrice.
“Sure.”
Having made a call and returned the phone to Patrice, I considered telling the officer that he smelled so perfectly like an officer, but advised the voice inside the menacing mind to move along. We needed to move out.
Standing about the simple room referred to as home, I wondered where all of life’s clutter had come from. I came with one small bag consisting of a work apron and a change of clothes...and some reading material. Now there is a room full of stuff. Pillows, sheets, mattresses, piles of reading material, clothes for every occasion, pencils, pens, cups, souvenirs and a whole lot of nothing. And this stuff is necessary why?
The sum of who one is exists within, absent the accoutrements we use to help the world define our presentation. The comforts of a fine mattress and superior sheets are enjoyable, but unnecessary to be present and purposeful in any moment. Accepting an upgrade from the plastic bag used to move into the room to a superior quality canvas bag, I stuffed everything figured important into the bag; picked up a couple of the better printed materials; grabbed the cash stash and a favorite pen and turned to head out the door, knowing that if I looked or scanned the room again I would find something that could not be left behind.
As she drove me to her house, some things had to be straightened out. A bed and room were not a necessity.
“I appreciate the kind generosity of your offering to allow me to reside next you and your moist chewy goodness.”
“What did you... I don’t mind, you’ve already been here.”
“No, I am not moving in with you.”
“But...”
“If that is a problem, let me out here. I will be staying with you for a short period. If the opportunity presents itself, we will engage in things that shame us and shape our memory with incredible ecstasy, but I am not moving in, I am staying with you for a short period of time.”
“How long?”
“I could leave at any moment.”
“Whatever.”
“So you’re okay with this?”
“Does it make a difference?”
There was nothing left to say. I was semitransparent again, wondering if being a transient was not a better way to go. Of course, the chewy, sticky, moistness of this soft treat could not be fully enjoyed when being a transient, and enjoying tasty treats makes life’s bitterness worth enduring.
The urges are growing. What to do to savor this treat...to extract all of the tastiness...
Posted by: Captain Forehead
Standing on the corner of number and alphabet streets, the hacking cough comes again. From deep within the wheezing chest I feel a ball of phlegm gather and roll up the scratchy throat. There was nothing left to do but expel the green gooey mass into the gutter.
“Gross,” a woman of known character shouts from behind her oversized sunglasses.
A true statement it was, and being once a gentleman who considered himself of noblized character, I felt it was appropriate to return her conversation starter with uplifting support: “Your perkiness gives that tube top a structure of peachy firmness that brings a heretofore unknown refinement of ample curve integrity to elasticized cotton construction.”
“Ewwwwww, gross,” she replied, hurrying away, clearly offended by the unforgettable oversized green mass moving in the street's gutter.
It really was a disgusting example of the assault taking place against my personage. There is great expectation that this assault will be survived, but not without receiving a serious pummeling by the translucent form of a venal viral nature. Alas, there can be no doubt these virulent creatures hiding in plain sight due to their microsity have set their purpose on thriving at my expense — in other words, killing me. And by what standing do they make such a judgement on my livelihood?!
A lump in my throat tells me another ball of stifling, choking phlegm is growing aggressively and needs to be purged. Loud guttural sounds set things moving. Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Psssstoooo!!! A green alien flies from my mouth and hits the curb. Sweat is running down my skin, which is strange because the flesh seems dry, cold, clammy. Fatigue is taking me down. I need rest.
To my left, reflecting the sun's rays was a bench for public transit. Around the corner to my right sat a similar bench, shaded by a building. Rest was needed, and it is difficult to rest while under assault from the sun's relentless rays. I manage to place my achy carrion bone bag on the shaded bench. Much to my surprise, my mind quit and sleep enveloped. The conscious mind is not necessary for the battle within to take place — conscious is an insignificant burden. I was out.
Do not know how long I was recovering on the bench, but the sun had begun its descent shortly before my respite and was near completing its journey as I returned to the shared world. I felt much better. To my surprise, I was no longer sitting on the bench but slumped over on my side in a fecal position. Apparently my body has a mind of its own, a parallel ownership of which my conscious is a minority owner.
Slowly, I right my resting body to a sitting position and listen to the loud, infringing noises of the street. How poor must my shape be that I sleep so solidly in these conditions. Yet I am tired enough still that I consider leaning to my side and returning to sleep.
“You okay?” a youthful man asks, looking at me with concern.
“Just a little down.”
“You sure? That gash looks pretty bad. You're still bleeding pretty bad...and...uh...and you're...uh...you're not that clean so that might get infected.”
Bleeding? Gash? Not clean? I recall my eyes throbbing, but that was from the congestion, that was what I felt earlier. Suddenly there is awareness of another throbbing, more pronounced, in the center of a shining example of a forehead. Then there was awareness that liquid was running down the face and dripping off the tip of the nose. I look down and see blood. After wiping the tip of the nose, my hand is streaked with fresh blood. I am bleeding, and from what the kind stranger has imparted it is from a gash in the middle of a magical throbbing head.
“What happened?” I asked curiously of the considerate youthful one.
“I...I don't know. Don't you know?”
“No. I had a dream some people were yelling at me, shouting insolent socioeconomic invectives and calling me a disease ridden bum while chasing me down the street, throwing things at me, but it was just a dream. I have been on this bench for hours.”
“You need to get that taken care of.”
The young man helps me up. I cough, send him a viral foe as thanks for his help, and in that instant I remember, I know who gave me this foe, indifferent to I as good or evil. A young woman of exceptional skin quality coughed on me when she asked me for directions — a query I could not satisfy. This bug expanded from assaulting me to this kind, youthful man. This thing does not care if the nature of the human assaulted is good or evil, simply that it is a living human it can try and ravage. From the thoughtless viruses point of view, we are all evil and worthy of being struck down without judgement or consideration of any kind. The assault is fate's roll of the dice.
“I'm going to take you to the urgent care center.”
“No, but thank you. I know this is a lot to ask, but if I buy some glue will you glue my wound closed? I'll buy some gloves so you don't have to touch my special blood.”
“Special? Well...” the man began, clearly uncomfortable.
“Please? I am a man, just like you, who needs 5 minutes of intimate help to patch a wound received upon the battlefield of life.”
“The battlefield of life? How can I say no to that? Yes,” he acceded.
Once the gentleman agreed to help this simple wounded soul, though still fatigued by the assault within, I knew I would be better. I would get better because it is not yet my time, because I am needed by others, even if it is to make them heroes by my apparent need for them. I am not alone; no matter how much it may feel that way at times; no matter how much I may wish it were that way at times. I am never alone. None of us are. And that is the way it must be.
Updated: Imagine the surprise when sometime later I read a half dozen souls in the neighborhood succumbed to these fatiguing symptoms. The hand of fate is at times fickle and feckless, yet always divining.
“Gross,” a woman of known character shouts from behind her oversized sunglasses.
A true statement it was, and being once a gentleman who considered himself of noblized character, I felt it was appropriate to return her conversation starter with uplifting support: “Your perkiness gives that tube top a structure of peachy firmness that brings a heretofore unknown refinement of ample curve integrity to elasticized cotton construction.”
“Ewwwwww, gross,” she replied, hurrying away, clearly offended by the unforgettable oversized green mass moving in the street's gutter.
It really was a disgusting example of the assault taking place against my personage. There is great expectation that this assault will be survived, but not without receiving a serious pummeling by the translucent form of a venal viral nature. Alas, there can be no doubt these virulent creatures hiding in plain sight due to their microsity have set their purpose on thriving at my expense — in other words, killing me. And by what standing do they make such a judgement on my livelihood?!
A lump in my throat tells me another ball of stifling, choking phlegm is growing aggressively and needs to be purged. Loud guttural sounds set things moving. Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Aaaaaack! Psssstoooo!!! A green alien flies from my mouth and hits the curb. Sweat is running down my skin, which is strange because the flesh seems dry, cold, clammy. Fatigue is taking me down. I need rest.
To my left, reflecting the sun's rays was a bench for public transit. Around the corner to my right sat a similar bench, shaded by a building. Rest was needed, and it is difficult to rest while under assault from the sun's relentless rays. I manage to place my achy carrion bone bag on the shaded bench. Much to my surprise, my mind quit and sleep enveloped. The conscious mind is not necessary for the battle within to take place — conscious is an insignificant burden. I was out.
Do not know how long I was recovering on the bench, but the sun had begun its descent shortly before my respite and was near completing its journey as I returned to the shared world. I felt much better. To my surprise, I was no longer sitting on the bench but slumped over on my side in a fecal position. Apparently my body has a mind of its own, a parallel ownership of which my conscious is a minority owner.
Slowly, I right my resting body to a sitting position and listen to the loud, infringing noises of the street. How poor must my shape be that I sleep so solidly in these conditions. Yet I am tired enough still that I consider leaning to my side and returning to sleep.
“You okay?” a youthful man asks, looking at me with concern.
“Just a little down.”
“You sure? That gash looks pretty bad. You're still bleeding pretty bad...and...uh...and you're...uh...you're not that clean so that might get infected.”
Bleeding? Gash? Not clean? I recall my eyes throbbing, but that was from the congestion, that was what I felt earlier. Suddenly there is awareness of another throbbing, more pronounced, in the center of a shining example of a forehead. Then there was awareness that liquid was running down the face and dripping off the tip of the nose. I look down and see blood. After wiping the tip of the nose, my hand is streaked with fresh blood. I am bleeding, and from what the kind stranger has imparted it is from a gash in the middle of a magical throbbing head.
“What happened?” I asked curiously of the considerate youthful one.
“I...I don't know. Don't you know?”
“No. I had a dream some people were yelling at me, shouting insolent socioeconomic invectives and calling me a disease ridden bum while chasing me down the street, throwing things at me, but it was just a dream. I have been on this bench for hours.”
“You need to get that taken care of.”
The young man helps me up. I cough, send him a viral foe as thanks for his help, and in that instant I remember, I know who gave me this foe, indifferent to I as good or evil. A young woman of exceptional skin quality coughed on me when she asked me for directions — a query I could not satisfy. This bug expanded from assaulting me to this kind, youthful man. This thing does not care if the nature of the human assaulted is good or evil, simply that it is a living human it can try and ravage. From the thoughtless viruses point of view, we are all evil and worthy of being struck down without judgement or consideration of any kind. The assault is fate's roll of the dice.
“I'm going to take you to the urgent care center.”
“No, but thank you. I know this is a lot to ask, but if I buy some glue will you glue my wound closed? I'll buy some gloves so you don't have to touch my special blood.”
“Special? Well...” the man began, clearly uncomfortable.
“Please? I am a man, just like you, who needs 5 minutes of intimate help to patch a wound received upon the battlefield of life.”
“The battlefield of life? How can I say no to that? Yes,” he acceded.
Once the gentleman agreed to help this simple wounded soul, though still fatigued by the assault within, I knew I would be better. I would get better because it is not yet my time, because I am needed by others, even if it is to make them heroes by my apparent need for them. I am not alone; no matter how much it may feel that way at times; no matter how much I may wish it were that way at times. I am never alone. None of us are. And that is the way it must be.
Updated: Imagine the surprise when sometime later I read a half dozen souls in the neighborhood succumbed to these fatiguing symptoms. The hand of fate is at times fickle and feckless, yet always divining.
Posted by: Captain Forehead
When you are embarked upon a righteous path that will lead to conflict, you should not pretend you want peace; right and justice mean something to you, as you are guided by a moral compass that calls you to action.
It is better to be prepared for battle and not have to fight than to head toward battle hoping for peace while unwilling to surrender. Tell yourself the truth: I am going to battle. I will battle. Good will stand against evil. I want the battle.
It is better to be prepared for battle and not have to fight than to head toward battle hoping for peace while unwilling to surrender. Tell yourself the truth: I am going to battle. I will battle. Good will stand against evil. I want the battle.
Posted by: Captain Forehead
Thirst; though some choose to ignore the subtle first requests of a body's demand for hydration, I find there is little more reliable than the body's simple requests. The parched mouth in the midst of a long, wandering walk of indecision states clearly the body's need. Fortunately, in the age of modern consumption a beverage is for sale in one way or another every 62.5 feet. Such as the convenience store I approach, which will suffice.
Entering the establishment encased in glass to entice consumer's weak impulses, I spot the smartly dressed man behind the counter and offer a proper greeting. “Hi,” I grunt, nodding.
“Good day,” the gentleman countered courteously in a thickly accented voice, clearly groomed in a far off land where his thick, kempt beard is probably quite the rage. He offered no smile, his serious glare watching the store inside and out.
Along the back wall I find an overabundance of beverages from which to select. Water is the proper choice, but since some of the other beverages — many of the other beverages — are less expensive and nothing more than water enhanced or damaged, the decision was made to buy something different, something that allows for manufactured, unnatural sweet false satisfaction to pour out of a bottle.
Let's see...caffeine...no...mocha...frosty...punch...soda...no, carbonation kills...lemonade...blends...juice...juiced...no...no...no...beer...no, thank you...malt...disgusting...wine cooler...why...water is simple, but too expensive...water with vitamins is cheaper than plain water...no...water with spirit?...what is this stuff... After a mere 23 minutes of hearing the ring of the bell as customers came and went, I made a decision: I take the bottle of banana colada flavored, vitamin enhanced liquid (water?) to the counter.
“You are quite the decisive one, I see. It is good you made up your mind, or I would have to start assessing you rent,” the clerk circle smirked as he rung up my purchase. Before he could push the total button, he froze and watched a troop of young adults enter his establishment.
“Uhhhmmmmmm...,” I exhorted loudly, trying to guide his attention to the finishing of our financial transaction.
“Shhh. Wait. Don't move. Don't say anything. This happened to my uncle. It will be over in a minute. There are too many to try and stop.”
Turning for a quick glance at his view, I stared, dumbfounded. The young legally not-children were scurrying about the store, grabbing merchandise in quick, desperate snatches. It must be the rush of the day. “Don't you want to finish ringing me up so you can get to them?”
The man behind the beard smiled, chuckled, and finished our transaction.
“Thank you, come again.”
“You're...” I began, stopping as one of the legally not-children grabbed the juice and headed for the door. Justice began to course my veins, calling for action...but acting against mass stupidity seems so...stupid.
“Let him go,” the cashier ordered quietly. “You can have another when they leave. They're almost done and I don't want a fight in my store. It will only worsen the situation.”
Done? Done what, choosing their candy bar, beer and bag of chips? Then, as if in sync, without a single non-child queuing up behind me, they left the store as quickly as they entered.
“What the...?” I purged aloud, mesmerized by the absurdity of the large scale petty crime perpetrated by pathetics. (An admission of failure to act must be accepted. Done. But what would acting against such a wave of ugliness look like? If one man battles against ignorance en masse, is that not...ignorant?) Mesmerizing; such a petty display of profound and penetrating ignorance.
“Those ingrates! This is what that Evers boy died for? You would flounder in your avocation of finding a sesquipedalian amongst such an aggregation of addlebrains.”
“I only speak English,” the voice inside spoke too proudly.
“Perhaps in a destitute manner,” the foreigner replied in whisper. “Do those individuals realize they were all recorded on camera?” he shouted, wagging his extended finger at what was. “There is an image on the door requiring no ability to read to comprehend. Where are the police?! There are cameras on the exterior of the building! Or are they simply adroit criminals having no fear of the consequences of your lamentable system of redress?”
Looking down and accepting the disheveled attire as mine without need for change, I ask simply, “Redress? Why?”
“Those are all criminals! Did you not observe?They each secreted a few items, appropriating them without compensation! You are a witness to this despicable insult, this criminal enterprise, this assault upon civilized society!”
Witness? That's a problem. “Listen, I need to leave. I am going to take another bottle of the juice I paid for and go?”
Scoffing, he replied, “If there is one left, go ahead, I have everything recorded. The police should be here already. Go! Take it and go, if there is even one left.”
The drink of my desire having not been close to the alcohol meant that all of the bottles were left. I picked up a fresh bottle and headed for the exit. “Sorry for the trouble, and thank you for your generosity.”
“Go! Go! And tell those people to stay out of my store. I don't want any trouble. YOU need to fix your country! You can't let people think that is okay. Even in my poor country people are more civilized than your lazy underclass. Lazy, all of you!”
It was I who knew it was time to expedite my exit as he seemed to be becoming angry at moi for a troop of trolling nincompoops. Alas, they are fellow citizenry and he is a foreigner here to better his life. But how do you explain the idea that in this land we will give people a better life than they would ever consider working for, as effort is not required or expected any longer in this once dreaming of greatness land. How do you explain that as a country we have stolen ambition from so many by giving them so little...and allowing them to take a tiny bit. How do you explain that his robbery is an inconvenient truth we ignore? How can you explain this to a man with such a simple understanding of the English language?
I walk away. The police drive past me toward the store as I meander down the street. I am sure I walk past a group of the trolling troop. “That was stupid,” I suggest. They reply, but if it was English...no, it could not have been English, I did not understand a word...and I thought the bearded clerk's English was bad. Am I a foreigner? Am I in a foreign land? Am I...this banana colada stuff is flavorfail, but the body needs hydration. Next time I am going to buy water, or maybe I should carry one of those backpack bladders, or maybe I can return to my homeland where one can find potable water from a drinking fountain and people speak English.
I do not know where I am, but as I look around I realize it does not matter. Where I am is a place we all pretend does not exist, so how could I be here...
Entering the establishment encased in glass to entice consumer's weak impulses, I spot the smartly dressed man behind the counter and offer a proper greeting. “Hi,” I grunt, nodding.
“Good day,” the gentleman countered courteously in a thickly accented voice, clearly groomed in a far off land where his thick, kempt beard is probably quite the rage. He offered no smile, his serious glare watching the store inside and out.
Along the back wall I find an overabundance of beverages from which to select. Water is the proper choice, but since some of the other beverages — many of the other beverages — are less expensive and nothing more than water enhanced or damaged, the decision was made to buy something different, something that allows for manufactured, unnatural sweet false satisfaction to pour out of a bottle.
Let's see...caffeine...no...mocha...frosty...punch...soda...no, carbonation kills...lemonade...blends...juice...juiced...no...no...no...beer...no, thank you...malt...disgusting...wine cooler...why...water is simple, but too expensive...water with vitamins is cheaper than plain water...no...water with spirit?...what is this stuff... After a mere 23 minutes of hearing the ring of the bell as customers came and went, I made a decision: I take the bottle of banana colada flavored, vitamin enhanced liquid (water?) to the counter.
“You are quite the decisive one, I see. It is good you made up your mind, or I would have to start assessing you rent,” the clerk circle smirked as he rung up my purchase. Before he could push the total button, he froze and watched a troop of young adults enter his establishment.
“Uhhhmmmmmm...,” I exhorted loudly, trying to guide his attention to the finishing of our financial transaction.
“Shhh. Wait. Don't move. Don't say anything. This happened to my uncle. It will be over in a minute. There are too many to try and stop.”
Turning for a quick glance at his view, I stared, dumbfounded. The young legally not-children were scurrying about the store, grabbing merchandise in quick, desperate snatches. It must be the rush of the day. “Don't you want to finish ringing me up so you can get to them?”
The man behind the beard smiled, chuckled, and finished our transaction.
“Thank you, come again.”
“You're...” I began, stopping as one of the legally not-children grabbed the juice and headed for the door. Justice began to course my veins, calling for action...but acting against mass stupidity seems so...stupid.
“Let him go,” the cashier ordered quietly. “You can have another when they leave. They're almost done and I don't want a fight in my store. It will only worsen the situation.”
Done? Done what, choosing their candy bar, beer and bag of chips? Then, as if in sync, without a single non-child queuing up behind me, they left the store as quickly as they entered.
“What the...?” I purged aloud, mesmerized by the absurdity of the large scale petty crime perpetrated by pathetics. (An admission of failure to act must be accepted. Done. But what would acting against such a wave of ugliness look like? If one man battles against ignorance en masse, is that not...ignorant?) Mesmerizing; such a petty display of profound and penetrating ignorance.
“Those ingrates! This is what that Evers boy died for? You would flounder in your avocation of finding a sesquipedalian amongst such an aggregation of addlebrains.”
“I only speak English,” the voice inside spoke too proudly.
“Perhaps in a destitute manner,” the foreigner replied in whisper. “Do those individuals realize they were all recorded on camera?” he shouted, wagging his extended finger at what was. “There is an image on the door requiring no ability to read to comprehend. Where are the police?! There are cameras on the exterior of the building! Or are they simply adroit criminals having no fear of the consequences of your lamentable system of redress?”
Looking down and accepting the disheveled attire as mine without need for change, I ask simply, “Redress? Why?”
“Those are all criminals! Did you not observe?They each secreted a few items, appropriating them without compensation! You are a witness to this despicable insult, this criminal enterprise, this assault upon civilized society!”
Witness? That's a problem. “Listen, I need to leave. I am going to take another bottle of the juice I paid for and go?”
Scoffing, he replied, “If there is one left, go ahead, I have everything recorded. The police should be here already. Go! Take it and go, if there is even one left.”
The drink of my desire having not been close to the alcohol meant that all of the bottles were left. I picked up a fresh bottle and headed for the exit. “Sorry for the trouble, and thank you for your generosity.”
“Go! Go! And tell those people to stay out of my store. I don't want any trouble. YOU need to fix your country! You can't let people think that is okay. Even in my poor country people are more civilized than your lazy underclass. Lazy, all of you!”
It was I who knew it was time to expedite my exit as he seemed to be becoming angry at moi for a troop of trolling nincompoops. Alas, they are fellow citizenry and he is a foreigner here to better his life. But how do you explain the idea that in this land we will give people a better life than they would ever consider working for, as effort is not required or expected any longer in this once dreaming of greatness land. How do you explain that as a country we have stolen ambition from so many by giving them so little...and allowing them to take a tiny bit. How do you explain that his robbery is an inconvenient truth we ignore? How can you explain this to a man with such a simple understanding of the English language?
I walk away. The police drive past me toward the store as I meander down the street. I am sure I walk past a group of the trolling troop. “That was stupid,” I suggest. They reply, but if it was English...no, it could not have been English, I did not understand a word...and I thought the bearded clerk's English was bad. Am I a foreigner? Am I in a foreign land? Am I...this banana colada stuff is flavorfail, but the body needs hydration. Next time I am going to buy water, or maybe I should carry one of those backpack bladders, or maybe I can return to my homeland where one can find potable water from a drinking fountain and people speak English.
I do not know where I am, but as I look around I realize it does not matter. Where I am is a place we all pretend does not exist, so how could I be here...
Posted by: Captain Forehead
Sitting in the passenger seat of a vehicle in stop and go traffic can be boring, fortunately there are bumper stickers to read.
'War Can Be Over!', the bumper sticker dramatically proclaimed in bold, bright yellow lettering, but there was small print underneath. A caveat, to be sure, so judgment of truth would have to wait.
'IF YOU WANT IT TO BE', the small print spelled out, not readily readable as we nearly collided with the small wanna-SUV. Quick judgment caused a rash condemnation to be spewed upon other motored minions — even the just get tired and cranky, but it was a stupid statement, just as inappropriately made in black and white as the small text on the bumper sticker.
After entertaining and belittling banter, I offered to fellow passengers a more thoughtful perspective: “Technically, the cowardly man's bumper sticker is correct. War is over when you decide to surrender, and for many that is not only a decision, it is a way of life. So, yes, war is over if you want it to be, you just have to be willing to surrender. What a non-existence. What a victim's paradise.”
There should be a disclaimer for many who profess their belief in the end of war. When others fight war and you reap the securing benefits of the warriors as you stand behind their strength means you support war. If you are truly against war, stand on the side that is to be slaughtered, stand on the side of evil and profess your stance on war — yes, we know, you'll have an epiphany, and your great cowardice will surprise no one except yourself and others of moronic ilk.
When man speaks, his words only have meaning if they reflect his actions. Too often, men speak to disguise their actions. The truth of one is in his actions...always.
'War Can Be Over!', the bumper sticker dramatically proclaimed in bold, bright yellow lettering, but there was small print underneath. A caveat, to be sure, so judgment of truth would have to wait.
'IF YOU WANT IT TO BE', the small print spelled out, not readily readable as we nearly collided with the small wanna-SUV. Quick judgment caused a rash condemnation to be spewed upon other motored minions — even the just get tired and cranky, but it was a stupid statement, just as inappropriately made in black and white as the small text on the bumper sticker.
After entertaining and belittling banter, I offered to fellow passengers a more thoughtful perspective: “Technically, the cowardly man's bumper sticker is correct. War is over when you decide to surrender, and for many that is not only a decision, it is a way of life. So, yes, war is over if you want it to be, you just have to be willing to surrender. What a non-existence. What a victim's paradise.”
There should be a disclaimer for many who profess their belief in the end of war. When others fight war and you reap the securing benefits of the warriors as you stand behind their strength means you support war. If you are truly against war, stand on the side that is to be slaughtered, stand on the side of evil and profess your stance on war — yes, we know, you'll have an epiphany, and your great cowardice will surprise no one except yourself and others of moronic ilk.
When man speaks, his words only have meaning if they reflect his actions. Too often, men speak to disguise their actions. The truth of one is in his actions...always.
