A Fool For The Four Lettered Word
Norman Butler had been having a lot of problems in his life after his girlfriend of 8 months, who he loved dearly, called him at his job one day and said,
“Hey, so were just friends now right? Lets just be friends?”
“ Friends! I don’t need any fucking friends!” Norman yelled, very hurt and quite frankly stunned .He hung up the phone, fighting back tears, and almost having a breakdown at the bookstore he worked at. Kayla already was his best friend, he didn’t understand. Every time he tried to call her or talk to her, or win her love back, after he was dumped, it just became worse. She was busy she would say. She was hanging out with a new man a few days after dumping Norman. She felt nothing for Norman anymore she would say. Days went by, Weeks went by, and everyday and night he thought of Kayla coming back to him. He thought of her showing up on his apartment doorstep and telling him it was all just a cruel joke. And that the joke was over now. The frustration overwhelmed him. She haunted his dreams. If he saw a red car driving around town, which there were a lot of, he would think it was Kayla, if the phone rang at work, and it was line three, (the line she would use to call on) he thought it might be her, when he saw happy couples holding hands, he thought of Kayla, when he rented movies by himself now, he thought of her. If he heard a sad love song, he would either cry, or turn it off. He knew he had to stop, to stop all these thoughts, if he could just move on some how, just turn cold again. Just get on with his life. People tried to tell him that time would heal. Norman thought it was the real deal between him and Kayla, true love.
He was sadly mistaken. Sure, they had been fighting as of late, sure, the drinking was out of hand on both sides, sure, the sex had stopped, (not Norman’s choice) sure, Norman could be a real asshole at times, but Norman thought true love would conquer all. He thought if she would just give him a second chance, that he’d make her the happiest woman in the world. He was a fool. He was living in his own perpetual fantasy world, which seemed to just keep spinning more and more out of control everyday.. She was gone and he couldn’t seem to get use to it.
Time itself became a nightmare. The clock was his enemy.
The doctors had him on anti psychotics, and anti depressants. He would mix those with his regular illegal street drugs, and drink heavily at nighttime, trying to numb the pain. Norman had plenty of so called problems before Kayla dumped him. But now that she was gone, all his problems seemed much worse. It felt like a part of him was missing, like someone had chopped away a part of his heart. Kayla had problems too, but Norman, being the silly fool he was, thought they could work at their problems together. He was old enough to understand that no one is perfect.
Norman couldn’t seem to paint anymore, he couldn’t seem to write anymore, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with himself anymore when he wasn’t shelving books. He was alone again, and didn’t like it. He thought about going out to try and meet new women at all the lame bars, he thought about hanging out with some people from his workplace, he thought about a lot of things, but just didn’t feel up to doing any of them without Kayla. He had become attached to Kayla, he had opened up to much, and he had let his guard down. He made the mistake of trusting. He had thought one day maybe, he would go back to school, get a better job, and that they could have a house, or a farm somewhere in Texas, and become happy stoner yuppies with pets and kids and bank accounts. Because Kayla had told him once that money was the most important thing in the world, and Norman didn’t have much money. Norman thought of suicide a lot more now as well. He had joined a gun club, and began collecting numerous weapons, and learning how to use them. It was his new hobby. Sometimes he’d just go out far into the woods by himself and set up targets to shoot at. Norman had also joined a gym, hoping that would give his mind something to do, and get his body back into shape.
Some of the books at work began talking to him. Not to loudly at first, but just small whispers. The books would say things like, “hey buddy, over here, read me, pick me, got something to show you Norman.” He wasn’t sure if it was all the drugs the doctors had him on, or if he was truly losing his mind. He became convinced that certain whispering books held messages to stop the pain. Every time a book would talk to him, he would go and pick it off the shelf, and open it to a random page, and whatever sentence he first read, he thought, had to be some sort of message to him from somewhere not of this world. Whatever books talked to him through out the day, he would take home to read all night, since he was an insomniac anyway. He even read some self-help books on letting go, and things about when relationships go sour. Those books were stupid he thought, and after reading about 3 of them, and realizing they weren’t helping, he stopped reading those.
Norman’s thing was fiction books; he couldn’t get enough of them. They even seemed to help with the depression and boredom of being alone again at times.
One day a book called ‘the bell jar’ started yelling at him.
“Christ, would u keep it down! Cant u see I’m working!” Norman yelled back at the book. His boss walked by right as this happened, and customers looked over at Norman somewhat perplexed.
“Anything wrong today Norman, besides being hung over again?” his boss asked.
“No man, I’m sorry about that, I was just talking to myself.”
“Well let’s try and keep our thoughts to ourselves for the customers sake.” The boss said, giving Norman a strange look and walking away.
Norman’s face was red. He went over and picked up the bell jar book, and opened it to a random page to see why Silvia had been yelling at him instead of whispering like the other books had done. He opened it and the first sentence he read said, “Of course his mother killed him.”
Hmm, he thought to himself, what does this mean? How can this help?
Another book was now whispering to him, the book was an anthology of fiction stories called ‘love is strange’.
“ha!” Norman spurted, how appropriate.
He opened it to a random page to read his new message.
It was a story from Charles Bukowski called ‘the copulating mermaid of Venice,’
The sentence said, “There she was, double fucked, dead-laid on the sheets.”
Hmm, Norman thought to himself, hmmm. “Must decode these messages back at the apartment later” he said, aloud to himself, as a customer walked by him, giving him a dirty look. The books were really going nuts on him now. They all started whispering and yelling and whistling at the same time. It was too much for his mind to keep up with, all these voices from the books trying to show him something through their hidden messages. All the dam books! it was like they were breathing, it made him dizzy, and putting both hands over his ears, he mumbled “shut the fuck up.”
Norman went out back of the bookstore to have a smoke, hoping that when he came back in, the books would have quieted down so he could get his work done. A girl he works with joined him in the hot sun for a cig. She tried to chat to him about silly things humans ask each other, like “so how are u? what have u been up to?” Norman answered these questions the way humans are suppose to, saying, “oh, I’m just fine, oh, haven’t been up to much, just working and stuff.” He looked at her and imagined Kayla. The entire female species had turned into Kayla now. But what his mind really wanted to tell her was….
“Oh, I’m fucking losing my mind, the books are talking to me, and I have been collecting guns for the end of the world, and I cant stop thinking about a girl who dumped me months ago! I dream of flying rabbits with goat horns and vampire baby fangs who work for the Christian collation of CIA taliban secret societies and try, and try, and try, and attack me during my rem sleep, I think animals could really be dead babies souls resurrected from alien bodies, and given furry skin to trick us all, they communicate with me sometimes through the radio waves in the energy fields of space travel. I can’t stop thinking of heroin…. I’ve been up to about 170 pounds, but now only weigh 150, up to, up to” he thought to himself, but he knew better then to answer like that, even if that was really what was going on in his medicated trepanation head. He would be fired on the spot. He had to keep most things to himself. That’s how society wants it. Those are the standards if you don’t want to be locked up.
He went back to his work section of fiction books, and they seem to have quieted down now. He began putting books away again when he heard a faint whisper… “get your foolish ass over this way, come on man, hurry up Norman, got something u need” the book whispered. Norman tried to ignore it but the book kept whispering, it began saying things in what sounded like a woman’s voice trying to be sexy… “ Come on, u know u want it, just come get some big boy..”
“Dammit!” Norman screamed, with a yuppie father in the kid’s section giving him a very concerned look. Fuck, Norman thought, that guy better not go tell on me.
The book that was talking to him came flying off the shelf, and started flapping around on the carpet like a wounded bat. No one else had saw it happen but Norman.
He went over and picked up the dam book and the sentence said….
“They paused without the cantina and pooled their coins and Toadvine pushed aside the dried cowhide that hung for a door and they entered a place where all was darkness and without definition.” It was a book by Cormac McCarthy called ‘blood meridian’
Norman thought about what the message might mean, and put the book with his others to read later that evening. So many of the books began to talk to him, that he was being overwhelmed with all of them. He taught himself how to speed read, so he could find out what they were telling him about Kayla, and how he could stop the pain inside.
Eventually Norman’s vacation he had planned came around the calendar. He was going to go visit old friends in Michigan, in hopes of feeling happy again, and to take his mind off Kayla. He had been strong, and not called her much, but Norman had a sneaking suspicion she was with another man already. Norman did receive an email from her a few nights before leaving, saying something about “ sorry I didn’t call you back the other day, don’t freeze in Michigan, I still think of you all the time despite what you may think of me, you are the coolest guy I know, have fun!”
More mind games was what she was playing, a big phony! was what Norman thought, and was correct as always.. fuck with the man’s head till the very last second of his life or his sanity, give him false hope, string him along on a sick amusement ride. He wrote her back drunk, telling her that he thought maybe they could work things out when he got back, that he was going to cut his hair, and go back to school, and stop drinking so much, he also told her how she hurt him more then any one had ever hurt him in his life, and that he would always love her, and that he would love to have an email waiting for him, from her, when he came back from his trip.
The trip went by quickly. Norman enjoyed seeing his old friends, and hanging out, and they all had their own dumb advice on how to just let it go. Drugs were consumed, money was lost, drinks were guzzled, and communication was tended to. Pictures taken. Vacation over.
Norman practically ran to his computer when he got home after a week and a half of drug abuse and cold weather looking through all sorts of junk porn mail, searching, scanning, deleting, and hoping for an email from her. There was nothing. Nothing. Not even a hello from her. His heart sank deeper, and he drank himself to sleep that night after a long flight and drive back from airport. The next day he barfed bile in the early morning hours. He went to work. He thought of Kayla and what she may have been up to while he was gone. But he didn’t want to call her. He was upset that she hadn’t even bothered to send him the email he had counted on. He felt more and more betrayed. After a few days home, and still no email or phone call from her- he asked this guy at work if he had seen his exgirlfriend,
“You sure u want to know?” the guy snickered, in his sci fi section of work.
Norman felt twitchy, wondering what this guy had seen.
“Yeah, tell me dude, you saw her?” where?” when?”
“She came in here with a midget, dude, and they were looking at the art books.” The guy snickered.
“What? Shut the fuck up? Seriously dude, have you seen her?” Norman demanded.
“I told you, she came in here with this little bald midget>” the guy snickered.
Norman remembered the time he and Kayla had gone over to some pot dealers house after eating xtacy to score some kind bud, there was a midget there that Kayla worked with, a 25 year old bald midget, named mike. Norman had met the guy that night, didn’t like him right off the bat, not because he was a midget, but Norman didn’t like the lustful looks the midget was giving his girlfriend. Not to mention the midget was playing guitar, and trying to show Norman how to tune a guitar. Norman didn’t care about how to tune a guitar, he had a tuner for that, and was a much more original musician then the midget anyway. Norman just didn’t like that mother fucking midget for some reason. But Kayla seemed to, that was obvious.
It all seemed to make sense now. Norman remembered the time after a big fight between him and Kayla, he remembered when she had received a phone call on her cell phone when Norman was in the next room at his cheap apartment, he had turned the volume down on the TV, to listen in to who Kayla was talking to. Kayla had on this big phony ‘I’m the sweetest girl on the planet’ voice, Norman knew automatically she must have been talking to another man. Kayla was drunk as usual, and didn’t think Norman could here what she was saying. But then he heard her say --- in a small whisper.. “ no, lets not go to the bridge tonight, it’s late, I’m with my boyfriend, lets go on another day alone, together, and we will take pictures.”
That’s what Norman heard her say. And that is what she said. He just about blew his fucking lid after she hung up, she promised Norman that her and the midget were just friends- “oh honey, I love you, me and him, mike, we just work together, just close friends, and after our fight, he was going to go with me to take pictures of the old bridge off the highway.” She squealed in a drunken slur, Norman sat frown faced, not believing a word anymore, as she tried to cuddle up against him. Norman wasn’t an idiot, Norman knew all about women and their lying ways.
Dumped for a bald retarded lame song playing midget, Norman thought to himself, many a night, almost wanting to call her or kill himself. Instead- he wrote nasty emails to Kayla.. saying things like…
“how does it feel to jump from man to man? From bed to bed so quickly? Does it make you fucking happy! be sure to tell him all the same lies you told me! then leave him in the gutter like a piece of trash, ! and move right on to the next one!” does he make you cum! Do you tell him you love him!” fuck you! fuck you!”
This of course just made the situation worse for Norman. She didn’t respond for the first couple of days.. then Kayla sent an email saying “leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
“Ha!” Norman screamed to himself. “I must be right! She’s fucking a midget! she left me for a gawd dam guitar playing bald midget!”
Norman went on in his daily routines, the books talked to him, he read them, he got less sleep, he became more hung over, sickly looking, eating less, drinking more, barfing more.. thinking of Kayla.. He became petrified of all people in general, thought they were all in on the Kayla plot against him, to destroy him and his creativity, he thought of her and the midget together, the midget lips kissing her lips, her moaning, them laughing at Norman together, naked, embraced, Norman began to go more insane with these thoughts, he thought of all the great times he had with Kayla, he really loved her, he really missed her, although now, the love was mixed with hatred for what she had done to him. He tried to go on and on, everyday, trying to block her out, but never being able to.
One day at work, a book started yelling at him!
“Come here you fool!” the book demanded.
He picked the book up, and the title said “the catcher in the rye” it was a book he had read many times. He read a sentence from it that said “I didn’t even bother to get up. I just lay there on the floor for a while, and kept calling him a moron sonuvabitch. I was so mad, I was practically bawling.” Norman knew right away that this message needed no decoding.
“kill the fucking bitch! Kill her!” the book yelled at him.
Norman dropped the book, very upset with this.
Norman pointed down at the book , waving his finger at it.
“Screw you! I aint going to kill her! I know all about you and all the crazies that think your book is the answer! Well it aint!” Norman yelled at the book, stomping up and down on it with his feet. Customers started looking. Other Employees started looking for the boss.
“Kill the bitch Norman! Kill her! Holden wants you to! It’s the only way!”
“Fuck you! I won’t kill her! I love her! You can’t make me! you’ll see! She will come back to me! I am not a fool! Do you hear me! I love her! I won’t kill her!” Norman screamed, now down on all fours, ripping the book to pieces.
Norman’s boss came running up to him.
“Jesus Christ Norman, stop this!” the boss yelled, yanking Norman up off the ground, and pulling him into his office.
“What dah hell’s a matta with you lately Norman?”
“Oh I dunno, girl dumped me, ummm, books talking, voices, midgets, confusion, sad..” Norman mumbled.
“Look Norman, you are very lucky I don’t fire you, but I am going to have to write you up, and suspend you from working for a few days until you can get some professional help.”
“Ok boss,” Norman uttered.
All the employees stared at Norman whispering things to each other as he walked out the door that day.
One day Norman decided to ask a girl out at the bookstore. He was real shy and nervous if he was sober. It didn’t go to well, the girl looked at him like he was Ted Bundy as he tried to mumble off words from the top of his stoned head. The girl refused to give Norman her number. And Norman sank into even a deeper depression for weeks. Thinking he must truly be a freak of nature, that no women would ever want. All he wanted to do was call Kayla, to hear her voice. She understood him. To just smell her one last time. Eventually Norman decided to start acting, act all phony like people do- like society and Kayla did. He figured he could get some new girls phone numbers this way. And it worked. He would walk up to girls with the confidence of a zillion strong lions. He would mumble stupid things about what a nice outfit they were warring, or talk to them about the books they were selecting. He would say what pretty eyes they had, and ask them what they were majoring in. He was smooth as silky waterbed sheets, but inside, he was about to pull a book off the shelf and start bashing their heads apart. Norman was a contradiction of many different faces. When he walked up to the ladies, he could change his face from sick old dirty hung over depressed man, to innocent little baby boy lost in the big silly woods of life. The numbers started piling up after weeks of this act.
He would go home and talk to his cat, showing his cat the new numbers he had scored, “silly bitches” he would tell the cat -decoding more messages from the talking fiction books, late into the wee hours of the morning.. Norman began to put all the girls phone numbers in an old smelly black cow boy hat a bum had left in his car years ago, after picking the dude up hitch hiking. Norman had thought this hat was part of the fiction voices talking to him, it was the first sign he got about things, many years ago, and the hat had special powers. It was all starting to connect now in Norman’s mind. Norman was convinced of it.
After a few weeks, Norman had about 50 to 60 girls phone numbers, sometimes pulling in 10 a day, didgets, it was all about getting the didgets now, he would sit alone at night, pulling all the phone numbers out of the hat, talking to his cat, laughing, crying, staring at pictures of him and Kayla together, sippin whiskey and smoking dirt weed. After he got about 75 numbers of horny willing young college girls, one night, he decided it was time to pick the lucky contestant. His cat sat next to him, watching, wondering. Norman dug his grimey drunken hands through all the names, there were Leslies, Jennies, Maggies, Janets, Lisa’s, tons of names and bodies, personalities, and smells of flesh waiting for him-
Norman pulled the lucky name out, but couldn’t bring himself to unfold the little piece of paper. He looked at the cat that Kayla had bought him for his birthday. Norman considered it their child. Mr. leozane they had named the crazy cat. He wanted to unfold the number, to call, to meet a new girl, but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He grabbed the old moldy hat, and dumped all the numbers in the sink, got some lighter fluid, and poured it all over the potential dates. ‘Kayla, Kayla,’ he thought to himself, none of these dumb bitches would ever understand him like Kayla did. He threw a match on all the numbers in the sink. He sat laughing at the smoke and flames, his cat watched as well.
Norman picked up the phone, hit star 67, and dialed Kayla’s cell phone number. She answered.
“Please don’t hang up on me Kayla, I just want to talk about things.”
“Norman, I’ve told you, there is nothing to talk about.”
“But, but, I’ve really cleaned up, I got my haircut, and I joined a gym, and I’m going to sign up for school again and I don’t drink as much anymore.”
“Good for you,” she said.
Tears started forming in Norman’s eyes, and his throat got gulpy. He fidgeted around in a nervous posture, pacing around his cramped apartment.
“So I heard you came into my workplace while I was on vacation with your new man.”
“He’s not my new man, he’s a good friend asshole!” she screamed.
“Kayla, he’s a fucking bald midget, do you guys kiss? Do you laugh at all his jokes? Why my workplace! Why! You knew I would hear about it, you just wanted to hurt me more!” Norman screamed, tears pouring down his face.
“GO TO HELL! MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSNIESS! MIKE NEEDED A FUCKING BOOK!” she yelled.
“Ok, I’m sorry, I know you dumped me, and it’s none of my business, please don’t hang up on me, I just want to talk, you know I really was let down that you didn’t send me an email when I got back from Michigan, was that too much to ask? One simple email?”
“You need to stop this Norman, you need to get on with your life, like I am doing.”
“I’ve been trying, but it’s just hard, I’m so fucking in love with you that it hurts, I’m sorry I cant just cut all my feelings off like you did to me, I mean we hung out everyday for almost 8 months, and I miss you, doesn’t that mean anything to you? The fact that I love you?”
“I can’t force myself to feel anything for you Norman!”
There was a minute of silence, as Norman sobbed like a little girl into the phone.
“So you and the midget are having sex now?” he sobbed.
“SAVE IT because I DONT want to hear your shit or answer to you. It’s MY life and I make decisions for a reason! and he’s not a midget, he’s a dwarf! And yes! He is my new boyfriend!” she screamed at Norman.
“But I love you, why do you hate me so? What did I ever do to make you be so cold towards me? are you even human? How could you do this, don’t you ever think of all the good times we had together?” he cried..
“Good times! there were no good times Norman! .... I’m not sorry that I broke up with you because now I AM HAPPY....... I am living my life for me because I come first........................................ its my fucking life and I’ll do what I want!”
These words cut deep into Norman’s already sad heart. He couldn’t believe what was happening.
“What about all the times I was there for you when you were losing your job for being a drunk? And you were all suicidal and everything? what about that? I was always there for you to comfort you!”
She said nothing.
“You are like a fucking leech, you use men, try and suck all the blood from them, and once you are done with them, you leech on to your next victim, cause you are to insecure to ever be alone! A leech I tell you!”
“I’m going to hang up now Norman.”
“Please don’t hang up, truth hurts? I’m sitting here pouring my soul out to you, telling you I love you with all my heart, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“...... GO TO HELL... your just a drunk!.” She yelled.
“Why? I just want to know why? You use to be such a beautiful person, just tell me why?” Norman begged.
“We are just not a good match!” she screamed.
“A good match? What is this? The dating game?” Norman half chuckled, crying.
“Your just a loser with no money Norman.”
“You work in a fucking tuxedo shop now!” Norman screamed back at her.
“I AM THE MANAGER OF THE TUXEDO SHOP! AND I MAKE MORE MONEY THEN YOU!” Kayla screamed.
“But who cares about fucking money, what does money have to do with love? you told me we were soul mates…..”
“I don’t want you to ever call me again. Don’t fucking call me anymore! I don’t love you anymore!” she yelled at him.
Norman cried more, and hung up the phone, tears pouring down his face, sobbing uncontrollably.
He looked at the cat Kayla had bought him for his birthday, their child together, and cried more.
“So this is love?” he asked the cat.
Leozane meowed, and started biting Norman’s ankles.
The next day Norman woke up to a book yelling at him in the next room of his apartment. Sure enough, it was ‘the catcher in the rye’ book….
“Kill the evil bitch Norman! Kill her! Do it for Holden!”
“Oh shut up” Norman told the book, stumbling away to piss and vomit.
Norman called in sick to work that day and started duck taping about 50 sticks of dynamite to his naked body staring in the mirror. He had scored the dynamite off this dirty trucker he knew, who stayed in a motel and sold crystal meth to people. He then wrapped himself up in all black clothing, big baggy pants, and a long sleeve shirt. He pulled out an old rusty trunk from the back of his closet and started pulling out an arsenal of different weapons. He loaded up a USC CARBINE caliber . 45 ACP along with his SL8-1 rifle caliber.223- he loaded up a full size high capacity tactical response pistol trp- then he loaded up a kahr p9 9mm with silencer and scope module attachment- illegal in the united states-he loaded up a few 22’s and duck taped some hunting knives next to his dynamite taped body-he put on a long black leather jacket looking in the mirror- then loaded a glock 36 model 27-then loaded another old 45 he paid a lot for-loaded a smith and Wesson model 342 pd for good measure-then he grabbed his sawed off pump round shot gun somewhat homemade machine gun model 333- Norman put on a mask he had scored around the Halloween season at a dollar store, the mask had buck teeth and was made of cheap rubber, but Norman liked the expression on the mask’s face- Norman grabbed his duffle bag full of guns and after shooting up some preeemo heroin to relax his nerves for what he was about to do- he headed towards highway 6, driving to Kayla’s tuxedo shop job-
He parked about a mile away in a secluded lot and got out some binoculars.
He peered through the binoculars into the tuxedo shops windows, with ‘the Catcher in the rye’ book sitting shotgun next to his duffle bag of deadly weapons. He saw Kayla bending down, measuring some dudes pant leg. He saw her beautiful smile as she stood back up, her long reddish brown blonde hair, she looked better then ever, she was an angel. It’s just now, she was another man’s angel, not Norman’s. Norman began to cry. He watched her walk across the room of the tuxedo shop. For a strange minute she glanced out the window. Her eyes looked right into Norman’s soul. He almost thought she could see him. But she couldn’t, and even if she did, she would feel nothing. But Norman thought she might have felt something as their eyes stared at each, as he sipped some whiskey, grabbing one of his guns. Then he realized that Kayla was just a young mixed up kid who wanted something more out of life then Norman’s crazy soul. Money for instance. Norman had a moment of clarity. He just wanted her to be happy, he didn’t want to hurt her, Norman realized that if Kayla was happy with the midget, then in a strange way, he was happy as well, even though he was alone now, just knowing that she was happy with out Norman made Norman realize that he was the problem, not her, not the midget. It was he himself that had the problem. They were all right about him, he was a problem child that nobody would ever understand. He was alone. He was Norman Butler, artist, painter, writer, poet, loser, winner, soul mate, drunk philosopher, crazy, dope fiend.
He drove away crying more. He called her cell phone from a pay phone he stopped at.…Kayla answered. He loved her voice, he loved everything about her…
“Goodbye Kayla” he cried, hanging up, and driving towards the first national bank on Texas Avenue.
While he was driving towards the bank, he thought about stopping at taco bell, not to eat food, but to kick the shit out of mike the midget, who was the manager of the fast food chain. Norman thought about how good it would feel to bash that lil pricks head in, smash it over and over again against hard concrete, then shoot his knee caps out, so he couldn’t even walk, let alone stick his mini dick in Kayla’s love box.
“Fuck it, they deserve each other, was her choice.” Norman mumbled.
“You big pussy!” the book yelled at him
He pulled up to the bank, grabbed two guns for each hand, threw the duffle bag over his shoulder, kissed a picture of him and Kayla together, lit a cig, burning the picture, put his buck tooth mask on, buttoned his long black leather jacket, as an unforgiving Texas sun shined down on Norman’s half grinning sweat ridden sad face, he grabbed the book riding shot gun, shoving it in his back pocket, next to his map of Mexico City. Norman walked into that fucking bank, hearing all the fiction voices commanding him, all the pain, the loss, the love- the doctors- life and death all intermingled- in his now twisted skull-
“This is called a fucking robbery! Anyone pulls any alarms, anyone tries to be a hero, anyone who doesn’t do exactly what I fucking say! We will all die! I have enough dynamite taped to my naked body to blow up this entire block! Everyone stay calm, and you might be able to go home to your loving fucking wives, you’re loving fucking children, your loving fucking husbands tonight! Do I make myself clear!”
the end
Stories Stored
A MAN RUNNING THROUGH THE MALL WITH ONLY A LEAF COVERING HIS PRIVATES, yelling that the end of the world is upon us-
A woman alone in a dark purple basement listening to the sounds of a broken air conditioner hum and twang like the banjo strings playing in her pee brain-
A racecar driver driving 300 mph in a closed track past midnight is about to blow a tire-
A deep fry fish cook working hard on the line starts to think there is something living in the wheat cereal in a cupboard he never opens anymore.
A man with a scruffy face and cut off jeans with a protruding whiskey gut puts his slippers on for a stroll into a bank with a high powered semi automatic rifle and grenades strapped and duck taped all over his hairy body.
A young girl with toes made out of carrots and fingers made of acorns is trying to tie her shoes while her octopus tongue laps up lemon frowns from hidden ocean words
A backwoods trailer trash uncle of sam hinges together cakes along a long line of meat hooks that connect to an assembly line of blind ghosts-
A cult of sex-obsessed cripples is holding a sensual circle of class times somewhere in a smelly hot room of quivering slobbering grease balled scar touches and perverts-
A little girl stares up at the sun, screaming, spitting, cursing, singing, frolicking about like a marshmallow brain circuit missing in the wind sounds of a silent storm echoing over the snow filled Yosemite mountains-
A bunch of naked gorillas are running around breaking and ripping branches down in forests a zillion miles away, while squawking pelicans fly down with fangs made of sharp metals and try to eat the gorillas half toaded horse looking mutant monkeeed babies-
A kid washing dishes in a park that doesn’t exist starts ripping off his apron and telling the leaves that he finally quits-
A burnt out old lady with a big fat gut lays around drinking her life away, making 20 dollars an hour with her phone sex fake voice, as she chain smokes cheap cigarettes and listens to barry manilow records backwards at full speed-
A stoned weirdo nerdy computer hacker who never leaves his house except for more pot suddenly cracks into the governments data systems and makes 911 look like a picnic in the park, as he types coded messages like an Israeli half bred palestine with a machine gun mind, planes go down, data systems go berserk, people go insane, people only understand comforts that don’t matter, wall street blows up, the dow index drops to 333 zillion below a trillion-
A 19 year old kid has his first day at junior college, he has been up all night on acid with a strange friend who thinks he can turn into a bat if he stares at himself in the mirror long enough, the acid is still working, as they drive to his first class, it’s a business class, turns out the teacher is the one kids neighbor, the bat kid, and everyone has to go around the room and introduce themselves, both acid heads want to leave, they think every one knows, and from the looks on the other students and teachers faces, they probably do- step 2- never take acid again-
A robot made of un human fur- who just lost her only pet is out getting loaded with kangaroos, they are sitting around like lobotomy stoned rejects, playing silly games with invisible cards, and never a conclusion, with iq’s straight out of jerry springer show guests mouths, she is warring nothing but skin made of bologna and chicken turds for earings on top of phony smiles-
A boy with 14 eyeballs and only one arm is playing with fire inside a factory made of secret weapons, he has a wick, a bottle, a little pocket book of the world in his back pockets that are made of slipped down strips of brown spaghetti from pasta plowed shacks on freeways gone, he blows himself up-sauce covers the walls like schizophrenic paint murmurs in hearts made of silly putty-
A man decides to astral project himself into another world for his entire 8 hour shift at work, when he snaps out of it, he finds he has gone back into time, and is standing on a street corner, the year is 1923, he is naked, holding a loaf of bread and not knowing his own name, a dog comes running up to him with a face that is half human, and says to him, “ need a ride?” the man closes his eyes, but cant wake up-
A man looks outside his high rise city window, as the sun of a chilly Chicago day enters his almost perfect expensive deluxe pad, he jogs his mind through nights he doesn’t remember, trying to clean something off that wasn’t even dirty to begin with, a small speckle on the outer wall that no one else noticed, he calls in to work, pulls out all sorts of cleaning agents, and scrubs the small speckle that isn’t there-into the wee hours of the night with his knuckles making blood seem like ants underneath his 100 floor high rise- , all staring up at him-seem like military plotting government rodents from mars- trying to get up his elevator, the man stops cleaning, falls nakedly perplexed to his now bleached out wooden floor- he knows that money is nothing now, he knows he worked for nothing- his shaking arm reaches for the fallen sponge, he begins to wipe the blood up, he begins to dry his exploding skin, with an echo of a doorbell, a tear drop gone, a song through the clouds-
Billy the asshole
billy went out last night after drinking a lot of river filled whiskey by himself.
along with the regular dirt weed swaggles.
the closest bar was a strip club, he handed the 7 dollars to get in -to door man, as the old mafia looking owner/ door man) questioned billy about his temporary texas drivers license…..
- shut up man, im 31 years of age- billy said in a rude drunken tone
- -hey, u gonna act like that, u aint coming in-
- -look dickshit, I know u own this place, and u the big shot around here, I don’t care anymore
about anything, but I got 600 dollars burning a hole in my smelly drunken pant pockets-
- -alright, but u better behave- owner un does cheap silky rope gate..
billy walks up to bar.
-i’ll take a double margarita on ice-
-sure thing –bartender says= slick looking muscle man says.
billy wanted trouble, billy had money, billy didn’t care about offending these people around him. billy was a messed up dude, billy lived in his own lil movie that no one ever gets to view. that was fine now with billy. death, life, love, was pretty much the same thing at this point to him.money is power they always told him, but really billy never had much money, billy never had much love that lasted, only death he smelled on certain eloquent arrangements of lovey dovey flights gone-he gets himself in to- fight the boredom of nothingness. staring up at sunshine’s that never came.
billy shackled down at some table and viewed the scene with his already drunken eyes.
he noticed a few of the 18-year-old strippers from his last visit. they were busy with rich men, sitting at tables, earning their silly incomes with false smiles, and even phonier eye make ups=billy smirked to himself =as one of the goth skinny coke head looking strippers caught his eye- he looked away in disgust) she smiled at him, he stared down at his drink, wondering why he was even here. he was beyond her soul, beyond all of these fukers! other lonely tables reeked of men alone…..parole prison type truckers and fbi’s most wanted types, drug dealers, losers, shithead lonely scum bags, mexicans, blacks with cell phones, creepy white professors with glasses and wedding rings removed- twitchy crank pedophiles, construction loners, all sorts of single drunken men sitting alone at tables just like billies, but billy hated everyone, sort of, at this point in his life anyway, even the people that resembled himself. for he was always alone inside, lack of friends, lack of anything, lack of caring, who cares .billy had no friends, and never was good at making new ones)
the world was false, he himself was a false profit –had seeked gold, came up with fools gold, and a faulty respirator( attached to snorkel fin shoe slarve-
tonight billy had money, tonight billy could play god in shady off the free way out of city limit strip joints- the power of liquid fuel running straight up his depressed spine- the false comfort of money- billy always had to spend money when ever he had it, it had to be spent quickly, cause even billy knew, in his crazy state, that money mattered not- money never lasted- just as love never did- just as everyone dies trying to earn money- it sickened him even more, the thoughts, any thought, just the thought of thinking made him more mad in another thought- he lit a cig, billy was the best looking guy in that shit hole strip club. a small part of billy knew this. But his elf esteem was so low, it was like trying to save edgar allen poe from a drunken ocean raft going down in the middle of a meta physical dream called nightmare== but even that didn’t matter, as he pissed in ice-cubed urinals, staring at his new haircut in the mirror, talking to himself somewhat out loud while slicking his hair back with water from sink that shot out to strong..
billy walked over to all sorts of tables, staring at the lonely crazy men sitting alone,
introducing himself quickly, asking if he could sit with them, some would say yes, some would say git lost, billy was just as lonely as them, but most men have to be macho, don’t like to show any sort of lonerness, most men think they are gods gift to all women, even at strip clubs along texas highways- I think most of them thought billy was a narc, cause even if they let him sit down, billy’s mind would quickly ask if they could get any drugs, not a good move, most drug dealers don’t trust people- billy had been around a lot of drug dealers in his youth, he knew he was going about it all the wrong way, but he didn’t even care about that anymore, he was so honest, that he didn’t even know himself anymore, billy just wanted to have a lil drama in his life, other then staring at the paint splattered walls alone with cat….
toothless men started getting frustrated with his drug questions, men not from this town, other dudes with cell phones began to ignore his requests for higher consciousness, the money had to be spent, one way or another- billy moved from table to table, only half way attempting to be smooth anymore, none of it really mattered anymore, the outcome that is- and that’s what mattered most, that and maybe some violence- push peoples fuking buttons- see how they react- see if they attack- each table said they didn’t know where to get any drugs for billy, billy had barely noticed the naked beautiful women dancing to songs on stage, slowly stripping for all the sickos, billy decided to just sit by himself, after almost getting his ass kicked, or thrown out several times, he got another drink, and tipped the big bad boy bartender more then he deserved, who cares, he thought, gotta get rid of this money, one way or another..
a sexy African Amerikan came and sat with billy
-so what’s your fuking story honey?- he said, lighting another smoke
-just trying to earn a livin- she said, somewhat giving billy a nervous smile.
-yeah, aint everyone, some people give their fuking souls, their fuking hearts, their fuking memories of anything that mattered just for an extra buck- billy said, slurping on his drink… eyes spinning like characters from un seen cartoon dreams, yet seen in moments of belligerent for comings…
there was about a 3 minute period of silence, billy drank more, the black woman college student hot girl stripper half naked fidgeted with her legs, trying to figure some way to get into billy’s wallet.
he ignored her, stared out at the tables full of sickos, stared up at the goth girl dancing to some nine inch nails remix., then billy had a hallucination, it was of flesh and love and his family, and his fuked up life, it was things a man gets to see at certain times of his life, after drinking one after one, after one, after one to many, the thoughts that come after this, are only vomit, only headspins, unless one learns to control body and mind… then he studied not caring again, one emotion to the next, like some manic see saw of just wanting to get rid of the dam money that was still burning a hole in his b.o. smelling ripped jeans, billy wore ripped levis, but had a nice shirt on, with a collar, u can ware ripped jeans he thought, but at least make up for it, with a brand new shirt from sears, he was thinking to much again, billy that is, he didn’t want to think, he wanted the numbness of a good narcotic buzz, but only had a head full of dirt weed , cheap whiskey, and now too sweet margaritas chiseling through that barrier in his sad songed brain..
his mind went back to violence, billy’s mind, wanted to have none of this, he thought of the word love- images of sexual frustration flashed before his eyes, mutilated corpses, tears, lips, pain, happiness, with his dead relatives faces hanging from string cheesed shimmers, flashed quickly, billy’s mind flashed one zillion different images all at once, faces, friends, folks, strange books, poetry, novels, names- sex, lust love, loss- disgust, all he felt was disgust for even thinking. doctors tried many times to prescribe anti depressants, but billy was convinced that the doctors were actually aliens, who were told to try and kill him off, cause he was convinced the cia had a record of his activities through out his life, through out his life, things kept making him more alone, just an observer, observing how silly the human condition begins to become after so many let downs, and start ups- why he was still breathing, only the people he would never meet knew for sure, and even they weren’t sure what to say…
- so, let me guess, you’re a college student, who had a bad life in a bad part of town, your father raped u, your mother was an alcoholic, and u are trying to get herself yourself-on track for her only child, trying to work her way through college the only way she knows how, gonna be a go getter, gonna make something of her self?- billy asked the stripper who was still sitting next to him…
-do want a couch dance or not?_-she asked, grabbing billy’s leg..
-sure, why not, nothing like flesh in your face that you’re not aloud to touch-
she shook her black ass in front of his spinning eyes, rubbed almost close enough finest perfection big swollen nipples in billy’s face, after one minute and a half, the song was over, he handed her 20 dollars , plus a 5 dollar tip, she came and sat next to him again at the table, he ordered more drinks, the owner mafia door man looking dude, was sitting in the back of the place at some table, filled with half naked slut whores, his wife counting their profits, billy felt sicker-
- u are the best looking I think nicest man in here- the girl next to billy said, staring at him.
-that’s real sweet, but I’m probably the biggest pig to ever walk foot in these doors, looks are deceiving- billy, grinned at her, lighting another smoke, ignoring her again-
she said thanks for the money, gave billy another strange look, getting up
- I paint things- he said to her
- Oh really?-
she left, billy stared at her hooker like shorts that crawled up her perfect black ass, as she walked into the secret back room, billy pictured hot strippers back there, talking shit about stupid men, snorting lines off each others tits, laughing at all their money they threw in the air, pills passing around, lipstick put on, cunts and boobs jingling like Christmas carols in scenes that may not have bin
violence, fight, money, kill, sex, love, lost, found, gone , hear>? Ummm, billy’s thoughts thought, he squiggled his wormy hand in his smelly pocket , touching his money, like it had some sorta power beyond his own self destruction)
the goth looking girl came and sat with billy now
-what did u say to shola love? she told a few girls in the back, that u were a big spender, but creepy, she was almost in tears-
-do I know u?- billy said, chain smoking, eyes spinning.
- not really, I gave u a couch dance last time u were here-
- oh yeah, the girl that couldn’t look me in the eyes-
-it was my third day on the job, u know, you’re the best-looking dude in here-
-what about that dude over there, the Mexican looking trucker guy who has the nervous coke twitch weirdo shiver thing going on with his head, he looks like a big tipper, go bother him- billy said, staring at her false green contact eyes…
- is this how u try and pick up on all girls- she asked, with a somewhat hurt look in
her stripper eyes…
- who said I’m trying to pick up on u or anyone, I want drugs or violence, I’m only
here because I died along time ago-
the stripper goth girl named Ophelia, from some Shakespeare play stared at billy, billy tried to show no emotions, he stared at her, then stared at his drink
-what happened to u along the way? U are a good looking man, u could be a happy person, I can see a happy boy buried somewhere in all that tuff guy hurt talk-
billy stared over at her, thinking what the fuk would she know about anything, then realized, nobody knows anything about anything to begin with nothing.
- drugs- billy mumbled to her
-what- she asked?
-drugs- he said again- pain, anything, cures, can u get anything-?
-like what- she asked, amazed by the freak
-anything- he spout
-I can get u hydro chodene- she said
-yeah right – billy said, his pants getting hard(
she took his money, he grabbed her arm, -look me in the eyes, u do not want to rip me off- do u understand that?_ u do not want to rip me off, u got that~!- billy wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, let alone some stripper with a fake name, and past he didn’t even want to hear about
- I wont-
- she said, giving him lovey dovey eyes he had seen from all the women who left him in the
gutter of life’s lessons…
she came back, and asked if those were billys smokes, dropped 8 pills of pleasure into empty cig pack…
-thanks doll- billy smiled at her, almost telling her she wasn’t so bad after all.
Billy ate 5 of them, swallowed them down with 4 more double margaritas, and waited, while he waited, Ophelia gave him a couch dance, and this time looked him in the eyes, as her young skinny white ass, rubbed just inches from his ripped jeans(
but the violence couldn’t escape him after the 2-minute 30-dollar cant touch thing was over)
he sat back down at his table, now both Ophelia and the African amerkan were on both sides of him, staring at him, he felt closed in, what were these people, these flesh filled dreams doing to him, had the aliens told them to watch him, maybe they were part of the cia conspiracy against him- the narcotics kicked into his drunken head for a split moment, and he prayed for a quick death, instead of hugging ice cubes urinals,
billy stumbling out of bathroom, barf trickling down his shirt, a zillion weird faces in some club he shouldn’t have gone to, staring back at him, the bouncer made a move to grab billy, bad move, billy don’t like to be touched
billy socked him in the face, sending the 400 pound man into the owners wife’s facial reconstruction face, billy tipped over tables, kicking the bouncer in the face, the old man mafia looking door man, tried to intervene, billy was god , billy was satan, billy was a man who didn’t care about consequences, billy flipped the old man over his skinny back, as the pills rushed through his drunken blood, strippers screamed, the bartender tried to join in, but was quickly greeted with a karate chop to the head, strippers screamed, billy wanted violence, billy wanted something, something other then staring at the paint splattered walls of lost lovers( above a hundred degree texas garage apartment, billy found it, billy ran for it, ran for his car, leaving a mess of tipped over tables, and broken glasses, and men with knocked out shivering conclusions, it turned into chaos, billy was use to chaos, he thrived on it now, “all u fuking cia space ship watching me mother fuking stripper creepy fuks are gonna die some day! Just like me! and what did u ever leave behind! Besides a bad smell and shattered lips made from naked flesh!- he yelled, punching another man in the face;;;
billy lived in his own movie that no one would ever believe-----thrived on death wishes to most= most people weren’t use to any of it- little safe space ships of love and dinner, and knowing what’s gonna come next- the goth like stripper ran after him, yelling…
- u fuking crazy asshole! u are going to go to jail motherfuker! Just wait and see!-
- thanks for the pills, thanks for looking me in the eyes!- he screamed back at her billy,
the biggest asshole of all time. speeding off down another backwoods road, wondering if someone had saw his own lil private movie, or if this was just the voices on the broken radio, white dribbles of pills, and puke flavored drinks, slurping down billy’s red eyes..he cared about so little, that not caring became billy’s only concern.. sure the cops would find him maybe, maybe not, nobody really new him, fake id’s, fake hair, fake lips, fake money, he was only a stripper, just like them, stripping his soul down to the essentials of his own twisted art---- trying to pay bills--- that didn’t matter at this point..trying to have a night out – billy was happy to get home, to stare at the walls again, blank canvass sat splattered along the floors, empty beer cans, and expensive air conditioners he has yet to hook up..he wondered about what had happened, he had thoughts.. and billy hated having too many thoughts clouding up the bigger picture—
a man always weeps alone- but who ever said billy was a man?
-my mother fukin name is still billy, and my ripped up levis still hold almost all the corrupt money that was in my pocket less pockets to begin with……
billy found trouble, and even a little more…sucking on his bloody knuckles, trying not to think too much…
formations molded in solitude
erotomania can be like loving obsessions
delusions trickling through dampest skied out ‘ psychose passionate’
balance the leverage like david blaine floating-
distinguished paranoid truths like ‘de clerambault’s syndromes’
telepathic tribulations in coded in books voices
devotions rejected affection, some people’s compassion is nil,
a horizontal smack across my face with a fuking led pipe!
bleeding flowered red wines from my tired eye sockets-
john Hinckley jr. was in love with obsessive possessiveness
when he knew nobody owns anybody
slipping notes under Jodie fosters dorm room door
the munchausen disease becomes tunnels for minuscule remedies
relief of pain- perplexion techniques used in names of creation-
nothing but a ‘polle syndrome’ followed breaking points
alexander pope said “ is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?”
but who knows what he saw, we only have words with no bodily smells,
psychodynamic theories with special variations mixed up manic paint splashes-
tor rets syndrome- fuker! Shitass! Fuker! Dickshit!
as if therapy needed health insurance for behavioral discharges
do u know what the word frotteur means? ask Vladimir knobby cough
society has rules fuker! this is a voice in my head,
they filled my head back up with egg yolk from alien space ships
made from bong shaped men at bars saying” your to drunk, we cant let u in!”
my outrage… “ drunk? who u calling drunk? I’m just getting started!”
they want to take all my money when I have none left
stimulating loss can be a sub culture in tourist town gone wrong-
of course these are all hypothetical evaluations in theoretically altered orgasms past
mythology in myths of misty bela lugosi bites-
the transylvanians lead California state
with 33 self proclaimed vampires-
zen samurai taboo kung foo ti chi sociology section work yoga baked
yeasty bored board games- hydro chodone diner done-
do your section work-
a metamorphoses in baby Babylonian scars
tor rets boy “fuker no! fuk off, shit face fuckeyes!”
lycanthropy, therianthropy, minds over matters,
patience in growth, trivial turdlings like hail in lightining-
do u know who peter Kurten was? he yelled at his trial…
“nobody understands me! i need blood like an alcoholic needs liquor!”
branded the monster of dusseldorf
sex slaved psychologists in 10’th degrees of in out with above snapping black belts
of of of of of of of of of, I use of a lot-
mind in body training breath- to take another led pipe to injured head hole
& here comes thunder, just outside these humid texas windows-
of course ninja masturbation can kill u
with autoerotic asphyxiation depraved criminality
headrush yourself to a sense of sickness in morality
outcasted rejects of all society & love-
just now- the storm, made all electricity go out- computer shut down- cat get
dazzled- man get mad- I assumed all these words were lost-
but fate has a strange way of working- hormonal clingings I suppose-
now-
flie a deux of dual madness – contagious slurps-
communicated simultaneous imposed psychosis
like some Koro complex, some degree in koro penis withdrawal into abdomen through yellow emperors books of medicine from 3000 BC
tor rets- “fuk this fuk off, shit fuk no” bang, lightning again!
10 drops of blood only equals one drop of semen
ancient systems broken with kicks and punches, metal pipes, led weights,
anxiety erected sexual globes of dissipation
subnormal feats un discovered like gustav mind-
hair pull the trichotillomania while illustrating smoothly
the presence of external tongue meditations
with in the internal energy fields through radio transmitters that are invisible-
lies the depths of meanings, the radishes among all rashes-
ignore flimsy necrophiliacts blistering bat average-
mastering things beyond any violence, beyond any peaceful classifications-
soft as cotton, hard as steel,
every day in every way-
i become healthier in one way or another
sicker, sicker, healthier, healthier,
sub con sious potentials in compassion plus wisdom
call them eccentric laws in creation
call them lighting flashes with tough rain,
call it anything u will,
it becomes every day in every way to survive
Work time
futuristic air blowers
sound in shaded apartment
nicotine smoke stale air
circles like slight headache
numbers on the clock,
numbers in the clock,
black & white cat
attacks my ankles
books sprawled along floor,
next to chip crumbs,
sun lit spaces
cracking through shades
forming illusions,
shadows,
paintings against
white walls
churgle, choke,
scratch an itch,
a borrowed vacuum
sits in a corner
i turn it on,
sucking up pennies, possibly breaking it
as cat runs for cover-
staring at the clock, wondering –
why
so much of life
must be spent
at jobs we don’t want
click for larger view
