Unseen tragic Garlic taco

Unseen tragic Garlic taco

Act one: The pantheon of disaster

I crawl upstairs to the snack machine. I am out of energy, worked half to death, just trying to keep up rent on the parking space of my broken down van that I live in. That and keeping myself feed. I push a plastic chair against the vending machine and I crawl up the chair, blackness swirling in my head, speckled with shafts of white light, dizziness spins around me. I push in the change and push the proper buttons. A Cherry gingerbread meth cookie falls out, along with a free pack of ephedrine gum! Sometimes the machine spits out bonus stuff as part of a contest. The top prize a envelope containing one million dollars and a season ticket to the broadway show of your choice. I nibble weekly at my stale hardened vendo-goodies, washing em down with a cold meth cola from the new machine the vendies have installed here just a couple of weeks ago.

It's so God damn hot in this place, My clothes feel like I've been walking through a tropical downpour. They keep it eight degrees hotter in the breakroom to discourage people taking over long breaks. Break is over as soon as it began, President Geb Bush having legally lowered it down to ten minutes, cutting one crucial third off. This was supposed to protect us from terrorism and make the economy boom into record windfalls for all. Well it started six months ago and there is no sign of change yet. I began hauling the seventy five pound bags of cement up the dented up ladder. I could only handle one at a time, three guys on the crew could two two at a time, and that big snarling asshole Keven Brooks, could carry three of em. My feet ache from this, they are bruised purple from going up this ladder with the heavy sacks. My only ace in the hole, I have seventeen pokosets. These are powerful narcotic pain killers that I won in a gambling session where we played with tarot cards. I will pop one on the one bathroom trip allowed during non-break time. I will take that leave in about twenty minutes, and hope that I'm not being watched on camera when I pop that happy pill. Without the meth in my system I would fall asleep on one of these pills. So I slip a pill in my mouth, I sell another one to Marcus, a illegal immigrant from Peru. He gives me some cactus powder for the weekend fishing trip I plan to take with my cousin Earl Stiskins. I plan to sleep threw much of the fishing trip, or drift in peaceful mescaline contentment, whichever happens. But there is two more days of work after today, ah the hell of it all. Four more draining hours and I clock out and drive my sputtering car bake to my single wide trailer that has it's last room crushed by a fallin tree. Good to be home, I fish out the keys and hold them in my fist as I strip off my shirt, my pants are half way off before I get inside the door. The underwear flys off and lands behind the easy chair as I naked stagger to my couch and fall asleep instantly, using the small pillow to cover my penis. I sleep for forty five blissful minutes, than my phone rings, I wake up from a instantly forgotten dream, that fizzles away as I try to hold onto some memory of it. I check the caller i d, one of those luxury s I cannot do without. Sure enough it's a bill collector, one of the twenty eight calls from bill collectors that I receive daily, sometimes as late as two a m , even though that's illegal. Sometimes those assfuckmunchers even knock on my goddamn door, I sware if that happens again I just may kill a man.

I make a couple slices of fifty percent week old bread from the local bakery. Still in business merely as a drug money laundering operation. Nice and golden brown now, I pour me a glass of water to wash down this meager supper. I get tired of drinking only water actually, so I have been making teas with various types of local flowers and weeds. I have discovered something, when I make a tea out of two different kinds of flowers, I don't know their names, one is brown with white spots and it has seven blocky petals, the other a small solid pink one that blooms only at night, usually around two a m. , it makes a buzz rendering drink. Kinda feels dreamy, a pleasant sleepy feeling, and when I close my eyes, a swirl of enhanced images dance behind my lids. I like it, I have two or three cups a night. If I drink one just before bed, I have crazy visuals as I drift off to sleep. I have been walking around the countryside, looking for more of these special flowers. I have a few at my place, not not a unlimited supply, besides I don't want to kill of all the ones in my back yard.

Today I found a whole bunch of the brown ones with white spots. I snipped them from some old lady's flower garden, leaving five out of eighteen plants. These new plants are drying out now. Besides searching tending and curing these plants I spend most of my free time laying down, just laying there thinking, or in a deep sleep. Now that my phone has been shut off I get no bill collector calls to awaken me. Now it is time again for a long long nap, goodnight dear reader. I got to be at work in three and a half hours, maybe I'll dream a little before that. I remember only a fragment of my dream, something about me being in danger and deciding to go get my shotgun from my bedroom. Now I hit the snooze button three times, leaving myself with only enough time to take a shot of vodka, throw on some dirty clothes I wore to work yesterday, and take a piss before I must drive to work, and I get there three minutes late.

Again begins my cycle of agony.

Act two: Bad tummy world.

Another day of suffering for the man. We get no holiday paid time off, no vacations, and often we get fined a small handful of already worked hours for poor job performance. The worst it ever got was that week I worked fifty three hours and I got paid for fifteen and a half of em. Yes, by the forty seventy hour that week I was getting kinda sluggish with exhaustion. I dreamed of stealing back my lost pay from those suit and tie bastards who devour all they can with insatiable greed. Now there is rumors that forty percent of our crew are going to be laid off and replaced by criminal prisoner's on the work or die program. They undercut us minimum wage earners, as the state is paid a dollar fifty an hour for each prisoner's labors, and of course, those not productive enough are executed and their organs are sold on the medical market. I burned my arm on that poker thruster device that sometimes punches it's red hot shaft in a random direction. Fuckin hurts. It just thrust out unexpectedly, I re-acted quick, but it did a funky quaver in one place, then flip to the left and right rapidly, then straight on punched me when I thought I was clear. I fucking hate that machine, I think I may have to attempt to destroy it before they lay me off. My stomach is churning, shifting that acid from one eaten away section of stomach to the next. Twice I have to stop my labors to dry heave a bit over to rusted out and bent up trash can. I was lucky no manager happened by to catch me goofing off like that, now if no one saw me on camera I just might survive the week. My performance was defiantly down today, but I don't think that anyone noticed. I get off work and I drag my warm corpse home. I have to walk, sometimes my neighbor Riggens, who also works here gives me a ride home. He lives eight parking spaces down from mine, but he charges fifty cents a ride, and I can't spare the cash right now. They're is a park bench about two thirds of the way home, if I am lucky I can get there and rest a bit before some old person snags it. Today I am not lucky, a couple old ladys are smiling and gossiping while tossing molded bread to the forever famished pigeons. I was so hungry that I was tempted to kick a couple pigeons away and take a couple pieces of green strained mold bread for a snack. I decide to sit under a tree for a bit, rest up for the last five miles of walking to my van in that vagrent filled parking lot. But I am lucky this day, for when I start walking again I find one of those brown flowers with white spots growing in a alley between two houses, I help myself to it and continue walking, a little more spring in my step now. Riggens drives by without so much as a wave as I walk on. Finally home, I stretch out in the back seat of my van. Sweet milky dreams, a season of mist inside my head that evening.I was making love to a multi armed Hindu goddess on a massive lotus flower when I was awoken by the teenagers who live in the parking lot. They had a very non street legal car they had put together from many scraps, the whole thing looked like a rusted out garbage heap with a long tin funnel comeng out from where the muffler should be that instead makes the engine louder. I want to kill them, I want to kill they're cars. Then there are those stupid bass wars. One cars thumps, and the other one has to try and out do it. They even sell bass canceling headphones now, to help smooth out the twenty four seven rap thumps and allow the wearer to get a more peaceful sleep. They cost one hundred and thirty eight dollars. I've been pulling a little scam at work, you see, since I live in a broken down van in front of a city planted flower bed, I have no electricity. Everything I use is powered with the van car battery or my rechargeable s. I charge them at work, I have a small pocket sized unit that can do two double a's at a time, an hour to charge em up. I charge battery's at work all the time. I have a nine inch screen portable DVD player, a cassette walkman, and a battery charged porta-pussy for those nights when I like to pretend that I'm not actually masturbating. I think it's time for some of that special flower tea. I've mainly been drinking rain water at home, caught in a couple coffee cans and filtered through an old shirt I cut up and rubber banded around the cans. I refill a gallon bottle of filtered water at the supermarket thrice a week, and I bath in rain water, and sometimes I drink it to. Rain water tastes different in different seasons. If I pay the electric monopoly the seven hundred dollers I own them I can have electricity in the van, but installing service charge is ninety dollars. In otherwords, I will probably never have electricity again, just like the cable t v I shall never own, or the t v itself that I shall never own. I've had two televisions in my life. In grade school I saved up my weekly allowance for nine months, and my parents kicked in the extra twenty percent of what it took to get my hands of a ten inch black and white t v. Many of the kids at my school already had thirteen inch color jobs that they would brag about all the time.

Act three: The vile workplace

Getting colder now, fall is here with a chill breeze and lazy mornings. I don't want to get out of the van's back seats that I folded down to use as my bed. I have a fairly big bed in this neighborhood. Must of the people here sleep on car seats, and those are never comfy. Some sleep on the ground on warm days, but then they are more vulnerable to surprise attack. Most sleep in there vehicles with the remaining windows rolled up and the doors locked. I brew some flower tea, and then it's off to bed... I wake up many times during the next, local kids driving their four wheelers about, most of em modified so that they make maximum sound. You may think they would lay off during the midnight hours after one of their number got shot down a year and a half ago. But it has been pretty nonviolent for them lately and they get bold. When I awoke this morning it was to find that all my special flowers had been run over by four wheelers that spun out in the flower bed till the plants and grass were all shredded and all over the road and parking lot. I vowed revenge, to destroy the vary machines that they have done this with. All of this had to wait until after work. I did four minutes of stretches and I began my long walk to work. In the pocket of my leather, dis-colored leather jacket was a pack of keepler butter crackers, those were for lunch. I found a lighter on the side of the road, it was a cheap one, mostly out of fluids, but the thinner little sliver of flame would issue from it if one flicks it enough, I put the lucky find into my pocket with the crackers, I was so hungry for those crackers right now, but eight hours of work, I would have to wait, I would have to ration. The boss makes the announcement today that the business is closing down it's american branches and moving to Iraq to employ moslem slaves. He further said that the government was paying for this out of our social security funds so the company can make a smooth profitable transition. We had three weeks left to be employed and then we must find money for stale bread elsewhere, war is good the boss says, he is getting seven thousand dollars severance pay out of the money he has taken from our retirement accounts. He seemed to openly gloat about all this, but then, he did have seven armed guards to back him up. A small wonder that every great once in a while some poor soul finally gets to one of these pricks and kills of maims em. Then the newspapers and t v news make it out to be such a big tragedy, some piller of the community cut down when he had so much left to give. So much left to take more fucking like it. I really wanted to kill right then, right there, twelve years ago I woulda done it to, now I'm older and tired, with no parental safety net to catch me if I end up jobless or worse. We all just glare at our boss, a couple of hushed comments under the breath and out of direct vision. Our job now, he explained, would shift over to shipping out all the tools, products, and machines. Fan-fucking-tastic! We are working the products out for the rest of the week, than it's pack up and go time. There is a big rumor circulating that we are not getting paid for our last week here, because the C E O of the company is moving overseas with all that extra cash when the company moves. But it is hard to plot a revolution when you are too tired to do much more than veg out in front of the computer or t v until it's time to go to bed early and sleep a sore, sore sleep. Maybe this spring into revolution we will fling, maybe some caffeine will make us fighting machines, then we let the gunshots ring. Payroll hours are short in this phase of the operation, I get sent home after working three and a half hours, but I feel kinda glad about it. It gives me time to go shopping at the used book store a couple blocks north of work. they sell used books at half the cover price, so I buy a couple short horror story anthology's from the early eighties, nicely low cover price minus fifty percent, and away I went. I went home to my van and I brewed some more of my dwindling special buzz flower tea while admiring the cover art of these two books. I drank two cups of tea that late afternoon while reading the preface and the first two story's of The Nightmare Mission. Fourteen short storys based idea the idea of a haunted missionary church in south Africa. The first story was by Clive King, it was called Black and white and lots and lots of gore. Disturbingly yummy visions swirl in my head as I relax and reflect on the story, kinda like the after glow of a sexual experience. What a rich broth of sexual horror that was. I hide the book over some lose carpeting in my van and I stretch out for a nap...

Act four: Everything sucks, even you

Six minutes into my sleep a loudly revving engine wakes me up. It is just so unjust, I was in a place of complete peace, complete silence, only to awoken by some white trash kid trying out his anti-muffler. A loud device that sticks into the muffler to make a loud car much louder. My whole van shakes from the tearing sound of the engine reved over and over again. This is the fucking absolute goddamn last straw! I shall oh yes, I shall destroy that car so it will never sound again. I shall kill anyone I have to kill to have peace, kill for peace. Mass murder for peace of mind, for the holy sleep. The kid looks about sixteen. He has a beer gut and a mangy attempt at a goatee. What will this world come to if I don't do some weeding out. These engine revving trash kids will be in all too big of a hurry to have rev juniors to take their space in the race for air pollution, they should just fucking die, that's what. Goddamed punks! I drink my flower tea and it makes me calm down a little, my thoughts are still violent, but I'm thinking out how to do something without getting into trouble for my own actions. I decide on sand in the gas-tank. I grab a small DVD sack I found in the ditch, it had the sales slip to The Adam's family, season one. I walked about and gathered up some dirt and sand from the four wheeler trodden flower bed. I stuffed the evidence in my pants and kept walking a circle around the parking lot. I watched for a untended victim as I stalked around the parameter of the parking lot. The first couple of four wheelers were in use, reving loudly as they burned black rubber marks all over the parking lot. I walked further on. A added bonus is that I found a two inch long piece of a butterfinger candy bar some child must have dropped, I scooped down grabed it, in a smooth, casual motion I shoved into my mouth and all was well in the world for a precious few choco-seconds. On I walked. To the upper right edge of this parking lot of desperate souls. A mini van was parked with a mud covered four wheeler chained to it. No sign of anyone about in immediate vision of this. It was now or never, to sink into a illegal and dangerous act of vandalism in the sake of sleep and a blow against the rev empire. It could very well cost me my life. One of those fuck heads would certainly try to kill me for fucking with his precious noise maker. I walked right over to it and I screwed off the gas lid. I then poured a nice helping of sand inside it with a grim grin on my face. I replaced the lid and I walked the long way around to my own van, not finding anymore candy on the way back, although I watched for it with sharp alertness. Maybe that butterfinger chunk was God's reward for my destroying that foul machine, maybe God eats birds. I truely would like to see the angry, misery, and disappointment when the asshole that owns this machine starts it up only to destroy it! That would bring a smile to my frown wrinkled face. That was just one of several machines, maybe I should have hit them all at once. But it's hard to go on a full on destruction binge and not be caught, and probably killed. I feel happy, excited, alive. I brew me some more of the dwindling flower tea. I page through the Clive King story I've recently read, as I sip the tea, reliving some of my favorite parts. Then I read the prologue to the next story, "The Horrible night on the Bus", by Kenneth Yorc. I will recap the more exciting bits: Kenneth Yorc is a new comer to the writing business, having just gotten out of jail for drug trafficking, he began submitting the thirty seven story's that he had written while in the pen. Already Yorc has had nine of these disturbing and brutal story's published, and now he is in negotiation to have his first book of short story's printed, "Take along the night". I knew that I needed to have this book as soon as I could manage it, even though it was probably some months away from being published and although I had not yet read any of this man's work. I had three more days of work before my job was shipped overseas to help out our economy. I decided to live on rice and Ramon noodles and hope that nobody steals em from my van. So far I had not had any break ins, although they were pretty normal there. There is a water faucet in the back of a industrial building a block and a half from here, that's where I and the others here get our water from. The mexicans four cars down sell weed. Low quality and full of seeds, but better than nothing. I don't even have a pipe anymore, it got stolen when I fell asleep on the parking space between my, and the next car. Some one just walked by and picked it up off the ground, at least I had smoked it all by then. The car next to mine I have not seen occupied for three days now. The owner may have went to jail, moved on, or died. I'm surprised nobody has looted it yet for whatever things inside that might be of some value. I have cast a green eye on the inside of the vehicle myself, but I will not to the break in thing, I leave that to bigger assholes than me.

Act Five: unemployment in times of war

The clock clicked down and my job was no more. I collected my last paycheck, and they shorted me! I worked thirty eight hours during that two week pay period, but I got payed for twenty six. Lose low life scum! I tried to call them, but a message said the office has been changed to San Marthiez, Peru. I did not have enough change to feed into the phone booth for a call down there, I was fucked again, without lube as usual. Oh well, there was always a slight chance that I could find a job somehow, somewhere. My paycheck was big enough to eat sparingly for a couple and a half weeks, and I would have plenty of free time to destroy some cars and four wheelers to get revenge on these brainfucked bastards and they're constant noise. I took a long nap and dreamed that I had electricity and a really loud car stereo that I used to jam Vivaldi's the Four Seasons and blaring volume and all the revers were getting really angry because it was nine in the morning and they were all asleep till I rudely woke them up, so I cranked it even louder. I woke up from this pleasant dream to the sound of angry screaming a ways down the parking lot, not a uncommon sound here. I peer out my window to see a small group of revers in a semi-circle. Apprantly the one screaming is the one whose four wheeler I sabotaged. Hooray! Now he seems as unhappy as he made me! Serves the fucker right, but now I must be careful, I don't think anyone could connect me with the act of vengeance, but if the connection is made, me and my four flat tired home are going to be in danger, lots of danger. A inbred and pot bellied kid about nineteen was screaming about his machine, saying he is going to get whoever did this, that he was going to kill em. Some of his buddy's backed him up on this with oily macho male postering, but still they didn't know who it was, looks like they were probably going to end up picking someone to blame and smashing said person's nut sack in. "That's for my flowers motherfucker, that's for my lack of sleep, oh, suddenly you are the one who was wronged, fucking wah", I mumbled from within the unseen confines of my broken down van. It looked like a war party outside, with no war to go to, yeah they would probably just pick someone out of the local crowd and beat the living buttfuck out of them. That would argueably send fear in the heart of whoever did it and there would be no more anti-reving happening here. Only problem is I had already decided that I would strike again in two weeks and three days from now, let things calm down, and kill again. Kill the bad machines, maybe a couple of em this time to really strike fear in the stupid hearts of those noise people. I brewed the last of my flower tea to celebrate my victory in the first battle of what would surely become a war. I cannot say enough about how happy I was, the only thing that would bring me more joy right then would have been a full automatic rifle with a chain of bullets that went three car lengths behind me, then I would mow the whole asshole crowd down and sleep in a happy silence. That would cap off the lovelyest of dreams, the dream of peace itself. The friends and outraged rev fan neighbors of the young man were now getting now their loudness machines and roaring around the general area, looking for clues, and trying to catch what ever terrorist has done this. What an angry racket! I could see in my head a new version of Frankenstein, this one has redneck ignorants chasing after our monster in muffler free four wheelers, ha ha. I watched them for a long time, searching for some one to blame, they finally cornered a retarded kid and they were closing in on him. I hadn't anticipated that sort of a thing happening. "Fucking retard, we'll hit you real hard!", They were chanting. The kid, about fourteen years old and real tubby starting wailing and crying with fear, pissing himself. If I get involved, then they will believe I fucked up their loud ride, if I do nothing, that innocent kid would probably die, decisions decisions. Then the kid's father stepped outside with a shotgun clenched in his hands, he hadn't yet raised it, but the veins were standing out on his neck.

"Back off!", The old grizzled man barked at the vengeful crowd.

"Your idiot boy fucked up my god damned mother fucking four wheeler you old piece of fucking shit, so you back the fuck off!", Screamed the redneck victim.

"I'm not telling you twice, back off!", The old man raised up his gun and pointed it right at the bastard's chest.

"Fuck you!", The wronged redneck screamed, but his scream was drowned out by a shotgun blast, and his chest spread out all over his supporters on the sidelines in a gory gout. I stared ahead in horror, the old man quickly action ed back his shotgun for another round, in case any of the others wanted to get frisky, instead they all turned and ran.

"Holy fuck!", I said to myself with that same hushed tone. Sometimes the events you plot expand in wild unseen directions that this, what can you say or do? I felt bad, not for the dead piece of shit on the ground, fuck him, I wish he suffered more before death, but I felt sad for the old man and his retarded son, soon now to be parted. My mind is always racing, then it was going so fast it was looping. I saw the father going to jail, dieing there long before his fifteen to thirty year term is up, the son , taken over by the state or passed on to a abusive family as part of a government social program, maybe even he will be raised by christian cultists on a horrible evil ranch somewhere, never to see freedom or joy again. What is this hell called life?

Act Six: Watermelons from the sky

Twenty four minutes later the police arrived with a ambulance. The body was carried away on a stretcher, covered by a white sheet. A sinister thought crossed my mind, maybe I could turn this whole damned place against each self by destroying the noise machines one by one and let them kill each other off. I knew I could rack up a body count, only thing, is who would they kill? Me? Surely not one of their own. They suck though, and they should all suffer like they have made me and others suffer, my mind still glittered with madness. I seems I had already destroyed the most innocent thing in the parking lot, so it would be all uphill from this point. Maybe I should indeed start a war that might very well take my own life. At least those inbred fucks don't know anything about my feelings about there loud ways, if they did they would have already attacked me as a angry armed mob. Not a pleasant thought at all, but the thought of that noise maker laying all quiet and dead, that still kinda tickled my brain. was that bad? I man really was it? What I really wanted was to leave this place, go somewhere that is somehow cool. Where I could sleep, where I could find happiness, but such dreams, of course, are for fools. I was too excited to do anything entertaining or projective, so I just walked around outside for awhile. Someone was jamming their car stereo to a punk-country song that went like this:

• Watermelons from the sky
• everyone's going to die
• no point in feeding the fish,
• because it's the end of all this

The song was kinda catchy and I found myself humming along, and breaking out the chorus in song long after the song had stopped playing to be replaced by another similar styled tune. People didn't like me in this parking lot hovel, but they didn't hate me either, except some determined haters who look for a reason to do so. I was almost a non-entity, someone below there radar screens. A invisible man can do some damage around here, clean things up a bit maybe, start a civil war, whatever. I walked some more, trying to get these evil/good thoughts out of my always seething mind. Yes , fuck this goddess damned world anyway. I might as well do as much damage as possible before I die. That decided I went to the library to file my week's unemployment claim. The government was sending me one hundred and thirty dollars a week. I've been saving up to get my van fixed. Living on Ramon noodles and little else. I am required to send in seven places that I have applied for work at, I actually did apply at thee places this week, the only three that are within walking distance. I fake the rest. No one is hiring the likes of me. Hell I've been black listed as an independent thinker, what a horrible classification to overcome. I had four hundred and thirty bucks saved up so far, but I needed more, to be sure I had enough to get the machine rolling. Then I will be gone, maybe I'll destroy a few more of their fucking machines first. I sat under a tree in the parking lot of a near by bank. Only for a few minutes, even that was risking police intervention, poor folks in dirty clothes resting under a tree is bad for business. I was stepping on the civil rights of the rich. When will us poor people stop our mad class warfare of the struggling rich. I notice a car pulling up to go through the drive through lane of the bank. The driver throws something out the window, it smolders on the white rocks that decoratively circle the bank. I casually stroll that way to see that it's a marijuana roach, still lit! I scoop it up and I take a long drag off of it while I walk away from the bank, towards the park. I'm glad I brought my book with me, now I can do the read with a buzz thing again, better than a movie! I also decided to pay a visit to the parking lot community's weed man, get a sack, hear local gossip.

Act Six: Drugs on a budget

I could budget only a dime bag, I had a van to fix, but I needed some warm smokey dreams to level my head. Dude charges twelve dollars for a dime bag, but I don't smoke much nowadays and a couple puffs sends me sailing into a content dreaminess for a couple hours with a slow but nice touch down. So I venture down the road a very long ways and knock on the man's door. Styles Logfinsh answers, a ghetto viking with a braided red beard and meth addled sunken in eyes.

"Oh it's you", Styles said, with a blank disappointment expressed on his drug haggered face, he must be waiting for something to take his withdrawal away, and I'm only a bit of spare change. "Come on in, watch to vomit to the left", He said in a raspy monotone. I sidestepped the leavings of on of his clients and made my way behind him to his trashed liveing room, I sat down on the couch, after inspecting it for cum, vomit, or shit, it was clean and I sat. Jake Sponge and some Mexican dude with a brilliant orange shirt where there passing back and forth a methpipe. Tollie took a couple meth puffs as he told Styles that he wanted a dime bag and handed him twelve dollars. Dude went into the other room and he returned with the weed, packed into a half clam shell.

"This is a cool thing", Explained Styles, " The weed is packed into this shell and you can use it as a pipe"

"Wow!", I said, and I meant it to. Now I wouldn't have to score a empty Pepsi can to fashion into a pipe, I would smoke in style! I was the proud owner of a lighter so I was good to go. I had a short conversation with the crew there, but they were all so into meth that was all they wanted to speak of and I soon got bored and I headed off back to my parked van for some fun...Such a long walk, but hopefully soon I shall have a ride going on, maybe even a job, a actual job would be good. Seems fairly quiet in the lot today, then I remembered, it's that Rod and Custom show at the century townhouse. That is where all those bastards are going to be, if their is any possible way they can get free tickets or cough up ten bucks, and it seems any of them can do that somehow. This would be my perfect chance to fuck up some more vehicles and make the world a quieter place for the likes of me me me. I was feeling jazzed for the meth puffs earlier and he ventured outside with my destruction supplys. The first victim, a dirty yellow four wheeler was right by show lady watering her meager flower patch, no go on that one. I walked on, ever vigilante for a sighting of a vulnerable machine, just ready to be destroyed with a sweet n clean getaway in store. The next potential victim was that loud ass red and black four wheeler with the beer cooler holder attached to the back of it. This could vary well be the monster that killed my buzz flowers, it must go.... I screwed off the gas cap and let in some sand to clog the life out of it. I quickly screwed the cap back on and I moved on down the way. Ha Ha! I would so love to see that fucker's face when he finds that his baby has been killed! Maybe I could see a redneck cry, and rare and beautiful sight indeed. I walked some more and found a green and brown mustang that had woken me up a few too many times, I screwed off the gas cap and I gave it some sand to. I had a razor blade in my left pocket, I got it out and I worked into another four wheeler's tire, up on the side, ruining the tire, it took me about twelve minutes to work the thing into the tire. I decided to quit before I got spotted, I went back to my trailer to have a couple more puffs to celebrate my rash move. I could feel the high start as a warm tingle in my balls and expand outwards to envelope me in a other worldly feeling of warmth and joy. I just lay down awake but with my eyes closed, feeling the pleasure wash through me was all I needed, all I wanted right then, it was so right, so good. About thirty four minutes later I fell asleep, still buzzing.

I was awakened to the sound of a rifle going off, I started awake, the pleasant dream the had wrapped around my head dissolved away.

Act Seven: In times of war

I woke with a start to the sound of a loud rifle going off. I peered out my window, the sun was setting, there was a crowd gathered in the parking lot, mostly of young men around fifteen through twenty three. I heard the sound of the gun again and then I spotted what was happening. Apparently they had chased the retarded kid into his trailer, but they didn't get him before he had locked the place. Now one of the outraged noise boys was blasting shots into the boy's trailer, trying to kill him blindly wherever the unintelligent soul was crouching and hiding. I wished I had a cell phone right then, I would have the pigs on their bastards asses for this. Once again, all I could do was watch. It looked like they were going to kill a innocent person for the crime that I did. I suppose in a movie I would walk out there and confess that it was really me, and then take my death bravely. But you try to that , I mean fucking really, could you? I bet not. That is even before we get into the subject matter of would you? But all the same, again I pondered the intelligence of my actions, I had forgotten all about the retarded scapegoat who they blamed last time, forgotten in my excitement and justification of revenge revenge revenge. Now I set the village idiot up again, and I can't fight a whole crowd of assholes, some of them with guns, what the fuck. "Reloading!", Says one stupid redneck voice, apparently playing army while really trying to kill someone. The parking lot was filled with reving engines. the jerks had just got back from a car show and they were all pumped up, drunk, and wanting to do some daredevil action. A couple big fat stinky rednecks had grabbed a pick nick table bench and they were using it as a battering ram, crushing the rusted out trailer door open. More gun shots fly through the trailer, one of them passes all the way through and hits a redneck on the other side in the ankle. The red headed redneck kid, about eighteen, howled in pain as he fell at a bad angle onto the ground and curled up into a screaming ball. Again I had that savage monkey grin on my face, take that, it's not so fair when it's you that's hut, now is it, Mr. evolutionary throw back! The shooting stopped as stupid bald or nearly hairless young men rushed around to help the fallen comrade, who was actually crying a little bit in public! Tee Hee!

"Ahhhhh! My leg my leg!", Somebody get me an ambulance!", The tough guy howled, nearly drowned out by all the reving engines. I took pleasure from all of this, wouldn't you? His pardner, a fat blond dude with a faded blue baseball cap got out his cell phone to make the call. One of the many redneck engine noise boys grabed baseball cap dude's arm before he could start pushing the numbers.

"You can't call the cops, we still have a little job to do and we don't need police attention".

"Buba's hurt bad, he fucking got shot in the goddamn leg, what to we do about that motherfucker?".

"Let's get him to the park and leave him on a bench, we can make a un-indentifyed call to the police station from a pay phone and get the fuck out of there before the 5 oh arrives". The door to the trailer crumpled in and the rednecks ran in howling for blood. I felt helpless, I had inadvertently caused whatever bad thing was about to happen to that retarded soul in there, and here I was just watching, unable to to much versus a angry crowd of low life scum. They're was a intense endless moment, then I heard a shotgun go off, rednecks screaming, and another blast. The rednecks made it to the smashed in trailer door, and they tripped on it trying to get out of there as fast as possible, it was obvious what had happened now, the old man had left the retarded kid his shotgun for protection, well well well! I could see that one of the engine abusers was hiding behind a car and calling the cops on his cell phone, assholes! From inside the trailer I heard another shotgun blast, and that probably meant the kid had turned the gun on himself, unless maybe he shot one of the fallen rednecks a second time. Rednecks where either hiding behind cars, or hiding their weapons knowing the unfriendly pigs where on their way now. I hoped my van didn't still reek of pot, but I had kept the window up so as to not have the many neighbors smell it, and either inform on me, or more likely break into my van to steal my stash. I decided to do the safest thing, to hide under a bunch of blankets on the floorboards with some various stuff piled over me and headphones on. If they knock on the van and I don't answer I can claim I couldn't hear em if they break in. Every since the president privatized jails I have deeply feared getting busted. Human rights abuses like never before where happening, mainly committed by Hally Burton, a major investor in private jails with private rules. I hardly want to end up some Nazi style medical experiment to profit Uncle Dick Cheney's company. I set this hiding place up, but then, I can't stand to wait there motionlessly waiting for the cops to come and go without my seeing whats going on till it's over,dammit. So I got up and left a couple looky slits in my van to see what was going to happen. I didn't have to wait long, the sirens rolled in and a ambulance with it.A lot of the rednecks of the parking lot had run or driven off, leaving the wounded to wait to police intervention.

Act Eight: Police intervention

The cops surrounded the parking lot. Attention hungry residents flooded out to report what they had seen, I stayed in my van and I hoped no one would see me, or if they did, that they would just let me be. They stormed up to the trailer. I noticed that the two famous police officers Pork Morgon and Bacon Calhoon was among the cops, the famous pair approached the bashed in doorway of the trailer with their guns thrust dramatically in front of them. A couple camera men for COPS LIVE ON THE SCENE followed behind. From inside came the sound of violent thrashings and the cops dragged the retarded kid out , threw him on the lawn and cuffed him while one cop kept a foot firmly on his neck in a painful stress position. Fuck, I thought, God damn it. Truly if I had obtained Godhood at that moment I would smash through my van, and be a avenging deity, tearing the cops apart and then destroying the engine revers and all of their machines without pause or mercy. They forced the retarded and lost soul into thier squad car with relentless roughness, the boy caught his nose on the door as they threw him in, and blood was flowing now. They hammed it up in front of their squad car, making calls, posing their standard tuff guy poses, I truly hate them and I so want to see them die! I watched the ambulance attendants high five Morgon and Calhoun as they made their way in to pull out the redneck bastards on stretchers. The first one they bring out has a blanket over what appears to be a bad chest wound, there is a mask over his face and he is so vary pale. The next one out had the sheet pulled over his face, dead asshole! Then out came another stretcher, this one with a young man with a mask over his face, giving him oxygen probably.

Lost Losts of McFing