28 July 2017


The birds of the air chirping.  Landing to pull worms from the wet earth.  The rain moved on, the clouds passed.  Now a clear, warm spring day.  The birds of the air devouring their spineless prey.  After the long dark winter, once again we see the world can be a light, comfortable place. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Passing an old woman with a little dog.  The old woman, an old bag, in all honesty, coated as if it were still winter.  How many more springs remain for this old bag?  The little dog will surely outlive the old bag.  And then what?  The dog pound?  Or the kicks of some resentful relative of the old bag?  What was it the Preacher said?

For what befalls the sons of men befalls the beasts, even one thing befalls them, as the one dies, so does the other. So a man has no preeminence over a beast.  All is vanity. . .

All is vanity. . .

Therefore, we must use the measure of discernment granted us by the Lord of All to apprehend as much Truth as possible from the world's lying vanities. . .

But today the sky is the pale blue of the Kingdom of Heaven, and the air is scented with fresh creation. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  Cars drive past, imprisoning the lost on their way through their misguided lives. . .but that is their problem.  I shake their exhaust from my feet. . .

Here come two joggers. . .middle-aged women in tights and sweatshirts. . .friends/neighbors encouraging each other in rejuvenating their clunky bodies?  Perhaps they seek to find their lives in their flesh, but as the Apostle said:

Bodily exercise has some value, but it is small compared to godliness. . .

But let the dead bury their dead. . .today the reborn earth recalls the Temple of Eden, in which the Creator placed His image.

Walking, walking to the park.  Oops!  I stop.  There, at the side of the road: a squirrel.  The remains of a squirrel.  Near its mouth a pool of raspberry-colored muck.  A bright red death on a spring day.  The muck of the squirrel, and the birds of the air chirping.

As I continue walking, walking to the park, I recall a saying of Jesus:

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. . .

I've wondered on this many, many, many times over the years.  No saying of our Lord is more incredible, or requires more faith, considering the way life is dispatched so easily, carelessly, thoughtlessly, and in such bulk.

Our so-called *science* would tell us in the history of man 100 billion have died and returned to dust.  Imagine how many billions were aborted, or miscarried, or died in infancy. . .

Mere blips.  Blips of existence.

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.

The mass of the dead, those mere blips of existence, and yet the very hairs of their heads all numbered. . .

When speaking of sparrows and hairs, was the Lord of All offering only a general benediction to the twelve whom He sent to the lost sheep of the House of Israel?  Or is the Heavenly Father truly there, in the raspberry-colored muck of the world? 

One answer or another only leads to more questions. . .

We see through a glass, darkly. . .

Walking, walking to the park.  I breathe the newly minted air of spring as its gentle breeze whispers in my ear, but as I near the park entrance, I hear the cries of a child.  A girl.  I see now it's a little girl.  Crying.  Crying in the parking lot.  I look around.  Nobody.  No adults.  No one.  The girl is all alone.  A little girl crying all alone in the parking lot.  No shoes.  Wearing a yellow raincoat.  Too big for her.  The coat hangs well past her knees and the sleeves extend well past her hands.

There's a path in the park that loops around a pond.  There's a bench three-quarters of the way that gives a nice, quiet view of the pond.  I go there and sit in serenity.  That's where I was headed.  But this crying little girl, all alone.

All alone, except for me, now.  I don't like this little girl, and her fate means nothing to me.  But I know I am supposed to like this little girl, and am supposed to care about her fate, so if I just keep walking to the serenity bench, I will not experience serenity as my disregard for her will trouble my thoughts.  So I will have to do something.  I will have to do something so my thoughts are not troubled.

The little girl has stopped crying.  She is staring at me.  Most people don't notice me.  I move unobserved through the world, my presence long since meaningless.  I'd forgotten what a burden it is to be looked at, and this child's stare is heavy.  Weary of it already, I sigh.  But there's no other choice, so I begin.

"Are you here by yourself?"

The little girl nods.

"Did someone bring you here?"

Another nod.

"Was it your mother?  Did your mother bring you?"


"Do you know where she is?"

"Bitch goed!"

And she starts crying, again.

A car enters the parking lot.  A Jeep, really.  Wrangler, I believe they are called.  Two smiling young men get out.  One of them wears a red t-shirt with "Mmmm" printed in big black letters on the front.  Neither pay any heed to the crying girl or me as they make their way into the park.

"Your mother just left you here?" I ask the girl.

She nods as she wipes sadness snot from her nose.

"What a cunt," I gripe, more from the trouble the mother has caused me than for the little girl.

I pull out my cellular phone.  I really don't like talking on the phone, but there's not much else I can do.  I tap the numbers.  Almost instantly, there's an answer.

"County 911, what's your emergency?"

"Well, uh, it's not really my emergency.  I'm at Lillie Park and there's this little girl here, she's been left here alone, there's no one with her.  She's crying fairly loudly."

"How old is the child, sir?"

"How old are you?" I ask the kid.  She immediately stops crying.


"She said 'free,' but I think she means three."

"And you're positive there's no caretaker with her?"

I sigh heavily.  

"The kid says nobody's here.  I been here 5 minutes, she's crying, nobody's come around."

"Does the child know her address?"

"Do you know where you live?" I ask the kid.

She shakes her head.

"She doesn't know."

"Ask the child her name."

"What's your name?" I ask the kid.

She says something, but I can't understand.

"What?" I ask.

She says something.  

"I can't understand what she's saying," I tell the 911 operator.  "It sounds like she said 'Tylenol,' but I doubt that's her name."  "Is your name Tylenol?" I ask the kid.  She shakes her head.  "No, her name's not Tylenol."

"I'm going to dispatch an officer to the scene. Where in the park are you located, sir?"

"In the parking lot, at the main entrance.  Off of Platt Road."

"An officer should be there shortly."

"Do I need to stay?"

"It would be helpful if you could remain with the child until the officer arrives."

"All right," I sigh.

Now I have to wait.  Stand here and wait.

The sun shines bright.  It dries the earth.  You can hardly tell it rained earlier.  There's a worm on the sidewalk.  If it doesn't make it back to the earth, it will desiccate.  Spring.  The rebirth.  But death is never far.

The little girl is staring at me.  I look at her.  I look.  Oh, no.  Now that I am really looking at her, it appears she's not wearing anything underneath the raincoat.  Maybe, hopefully, some underwear, but I can tell from the open buttons at the top, there's nothing covering her chest.

What a ridiculous situation to be in.  Where are the cops, already?  I feel a headache coming on.

"What cunt is?"

"Huh?  Oh.  Oh.  A cunt?"

The little girl nods.  She heard me.  She heard me mutter that her mother was a cunt.  I'm not used to people paying attention to me.  Of course, she's just a kid, doesn't know I should be overlooked, doesn't know not all adults are noteworthy.

"Well, you know you have a hole between your legs, right?  All girls have that hole, did you know that?"  She nods.  "Well," I sigh, "as some girls grow up. . .as they age. . .everything around that hole, everything from the toes to the hair on the head, all the bones, the muscle, the blood, the guts, even the heart and the brain, the engines of our thoughts, of our. . .being. . .everything becomes corrupt.  Do you know what corrupt means?"  She shakes her head.

I notice a man on foot entering the park.  A bum.  He's carrying a fishing pole and an old coffee can.  Ha!  Maybe he's trying to get a free dinner out of the pond!  Fry up some tiny smallmouth bass under the overpass, wash 'em down with a forty ouncer.  Anyway, I wait until he's out of earshot, then I continue.

"So, corrupt means rotten.  Some girls grow up and turn rotten."  The little girl doesn't seem to understand.  "Like a banana," I explain.  "Have you ever seen a rotten banana?  It's bruised brown and black and it's brown and mushy inside.  Have you seen a banana like that?  A rotten banana?"  She nods.  "Well, some girls get that way.  They become bruised.  Their insides, their spirit and soul, become brown and mushy.  They're rotten.  And so one of the words grown-ups use to describe rotten girls is 'cunt.'  Does that make sense?  Do you get it?"  She nods.

I've always believed I could have been a fine teacher.

This little girl looks like she's about to cry, again.  Best to tell her the lie that keeps everyone going.  Things will be better.

"The police will be here soon.  They'll get you home and everything will be all right.  I'm sure your mother just got confused or something."

"Po-lice is cunt," the little girl says.


Well, she's a quick learner, that's for sure.

I hear one of the porta-john doors squeak open, up where the trail begins.  Out steps the fishing bum.  He looks at me looking at him. They say in Paris, France there are some charming bums.  They call them clochards.  Our bums are not charming.  Piss-stained liars, that's what our bums are.  The bum looks at the little girl.  Looks at me.  A gutter look.  Bums are like children, taking note of everything.  But their minds are diseased.  Everything processed in the trough.  The poor fish that has to swim in his belly.

But here's the squad car, finally.  Two officers get out.  One approaches me while the other gets down on one knee to talk to the little girl.  I tell my cop the story, he asks for my name, address, phone number. . .and that's it.  I can go.  I look at the little girl.  And now what for her?  Returned to her. . .returned to where she lives?  To start it all over again?  The circle.  The millstone of life.

I look at the little girl.  I wouldn't want to go back and start all over.  Growing up is a losing proposition.  The best you can do is survive, then get a job and labor for someone else's benefit. And yet, our Lord said that's exactly what we have to do, go back and start all over, again:

Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven. . .

I look at the little girl.  Should I say goodbye?  But I never even said hello.  I turn around and head for the serenity bench.

15 June 2017

The 12th Dimension: Faith

The above Newsweek article contends:

"It is as if the brain reacts to a stimulus by building then razing a tower of multi-dimensional blocks, starting with rods (1D), then planks (2D), then cubes (3D), and then more complex geometries with 4D, 5D, etc. The progression of activity through the brain resembles a multi-dimensional sandcastle that materializes out of the sand and then disintegrates," he said. Henry Markram, director of Blue Brain Project, said the findings could help explain why the brain is so hard to understand. "The mathematics usually applied to study networks cannot detect the high-dimensional structures and spaces that we now see clearly,” he said. "We found a world that we had never imagined. There are tens of millions of these objects even in a small speck of the brain, up through seven dimensions. In some networks, we even found structures with up to eleven dimensions."

If true, we can thus speculate on the enigma: why one man hears the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, and another does not.

Jesus, speaking of Himself and His followers, said:

The sheep hear His voice: and He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him: for they know His voice.

Speaking to the unbelievers, Jesus said:

But ye believe not, because ye are not of My sheep, as I said unto you. My sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they follow Me: and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of My hand.

The Apostle Paul said:

Faith cometh by hearing, and hearing by the word of God. . .


For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God. . .

So if we wish to be contemporarily scientific, we can therefore speculate the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ have been gifted  by God with brains capable of an extra dimension, a 12th dimension not built upon sand which quickly disintegrates upon hearing the gospel, but a Faith Dimension, in which the gospel takes root, forever. . .

09 June 2017

Media *Shock* Is Fake News

Predictably, Media report *shock* at the election results in Britain. Jeremy Corbyn, who Media mercilessly mocked and slandered for the last two years, managed an almost-draw with establishment figurehead/ugly cunt Theresa May in May's stupidly called for *snap elections.*

Here's Corbyn's platform:

Investing half a trillion pounds in rebuilding Britain's industrial infrastructure, building millions of homes, making universities free, and re-nationalizing the country's railways, utilities and postal service. He proposed to pay for all that by hiking corporate tax rates from 17 to 26 percent and imposing taxes on real estate and incomes over $100,000 a year.

The Western Media, hardly free, controlled by fewer people than make up a National Football League team, and a propaganda distributor for the ultra-rich, always mock even these most modest economic proposals to just slightly lessen the burden of the poor. Older whites always fall for it, for they're still under the illusion/delusion they're *middle-class,* but, increasingly, Western white youth see through the propaganda and realize they are no better off than most niggers. . .hence they gravitate to *populists* like Corbyn and Sanders, even though Jez and Bern are old enough to be their grandpa.

Media claims *shock* at these election results. . .of course, Media aren't really shocked, Media's just grateful Western medicine can keep enough old fart diabetics, heart patients and alcoholics alive long enough to let *conservative capitalists* squeak through a couple more elections and squeeze the last few drops of blood money from the turnip poor.

19 May 2017

The Atomic Age

ABC, 19 May 2017: A century-old document found inside a box of unarchived records in a southern New Mexico county is shedding a little more light on the shooting death of the Old West lawman who gained fame for killing Billy the Kid.

Dated July 9, 1908, the nearly illegible handwritten coroner's jury report refers to the investigation of the death of Pat Garrett, who served as sheriff in Lincoln and Dona Ana counties before being appointed as a customs collector along the U.S.-Mexico border. Garrett died Feb. 29, 1908.

Historians have searched for years for additional official documents beyond court records and newspaper articles from the time that assigned blame for Garrett's shooting death since some have their own theories about who pulled the trigger.

Signed by several justices of the peace and coroners, the document states that Garrett was reported dead in Dona Ana County in the territory of New Mexico about five miles northeast of Las Cruces.

They found that "the deceased came to his death by gunshot wounds inflicted by one Wayne Brazel."

The document was found in November by Angelica Valenzuela, the records and filing supervisor with the county clerk's office, as part of a preservation effort that involved records spanning the last half of the 1800s through the mid-1960s.

"She knew as soon as she saw it that it was worth gold," county spokesman Jess Williams said of the signed jury report.

The guy who shot Pat Garrett was some yokel named Wayne Brazel. . .his nephew was Mac Brazel, the joker who found the *UFO* wreckage on his ranch in Roswell. That's the America one can love: Billy the Kid and Flying Saucers. What we live in today is not America. We live in AmericaLand, an electronic version. Today's Americans are like the little figures in electric football who move aimlessly in mass seizure. It must be that the wreckage ol' Mac Brazel found in 1947 was just a Predator drone from America's grim future, it found its way into the past, to Trinity, to haunt an atomic age people who used to be human enough to do their own killing.

16 May 2017

The Blacklist

Been awake for 30+ hours. . .looking through Netflix to kill time. . .came across a show called The Blacklist, a preposterous *thriller* about a super criminal who turns himself into the FBI and rats out all his former associates just so he can work with an annoying cunt of an FBI profiler. There's supposed to be some mysterious connection between the super criminal/rat and the cunt profiler, but it's probably just that she's his daughter. Of course, the show so obviously wants you to think that she's his daughter, there may be some lame *twist*--such as she's not his daughter, but the daughter of some cunt he loved or killed or killed and loved or something similarly stupid. Anyways, each episode has the super criminal/rat and the cunt catching some global terrorist or nutcase in plots that are more ludicrous than The Three Stooges You Nazty Spy! American Garbage TV at its worst.

04 May 2017

The Parable Of The Wheat And The Tare-orists

2 May 2017: Accounts from witnesses and survivors cast doubt on American suggestions that the Islamic State group was to blame for the deaths of more than 100 people taking refuge in a house hit by a U.S. airstrike earlier this year in Mosul, the deadliest single incident of the months-long campaign to retake the Iraqi city. U.S. officials said soon after the March 17 strike that investigations could find that militants forced people into the building, booby-trapped it with explosives, then lured in the strike.

None of that happened, according to seven witnesses and survivors who spoke to The Associated Press. Instead, they described a horrifying battlefield where airstrikes and artillery pound neighborhoods relentlessly, trying to root out IS militants, leveling hundreds of buildings, many with civilians inside, despite the constant flight of surveillance drones overhead. 

Under the principle no man can serve two masters, no follower of the Lord Jesus Christ can also support US military policy that tolerates *collateral damage.*

The Lord taught in His parable of the wheat and the tares when man tries to root out the children of the devil, he will invariably fail, and in the process also root out the children of God.  

Plain and simple, it's not man's job to sort out the tares from the wheat. . .both are to be left to grow until the End, and then the Lord will send His Reapers. . .no mistakes will be made.  There will be no *collateral damage.*

In the parable, the servants come to the Master and ask if they can sort out the tares. . .the Master says 'no.'

No means no. . .

Man does not have the ability, nor the right, to execute such judgment.  

Isn't is sad Americans who claim to follow Jesus utter nary a peep against the anti-Christ tactics of the US military?

But if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. . .

02 May 2017

The Po-Lice *Core Values*

1 May 2017: White police officer Roy Oliver killed a 15-year-old black boy as he was leaving a Dallas-area house party in what officials described on Monday as a shooting that did not meet police department standards. "We have a certain set of core values, and it did not meet our core values," Balch Springs Police Chief Jonathan Haber said.

The boy, Jordan Edwards, had been in a car with several other teens heading out after a party in Balch Springs, near Dallas, on Saturday night, said Lee Merritt, an attorney for the boy's family. When officers arrived at the scene around 11 p.m., police initially said in a statement, they heard gunshots and encountered a car that was backing toward them "aggressive[ly]." Edwards, who was sitting in the front seat, was shot in the head and later died.

But on Monday, after reviewing body camera footage, Haber revised this, saying that he had questions about what he saw "and what is consistent with policies and core values of the Balch Springs Police Department."

Ha ha ha ha!  I work in what is called *Law Enforcement.*  All these agencies have what they call their *Core Values.*  That's the bullshit they post on their website and pass out to Media when they invariably fuck-up.  

Let me tell you the real *Core Values* of the Po-Lice:

They think the costume they put on means they are √úbermensch, above the piddling *civilians* they demand subservience from.  They will barely tolerate a second-look from a white, and not-at-all from a colored person.  They claim they *protect and serve,* but in reality they only push around the unfortunate dopes they pull over.  Oh, and cops would barely catch any criminals if criminals didn't drive.  And if criminals only drove on rainy nights, the jails would be empty.  The Po-Lice are too soft and lazy to pull over anybody in the rain.  The Po-Lice are also cowardly.  Despite wearing ridiculous suits of body armor and being armed with a variety of weapons, they will piss their pants, start shooting and ask questions later if:

a civilian, white or black, has anything remotely resembling a gun or knife in his hand. . .

a large black male walks toward them. . .

Half the charges the po-lice throw at black males end up getting reduced or dismissed.  If a black male says *what?,* the po-lice charge him with felony resisting and obstructing, and lock his sorry black ass up.

I know from years of experience the po-lice have only scorn for whites, and absolutely despise colored people, and think ANY killing of a black male is justified.  Trust me, the gutless Texas cop who shot Jordan Edwards is considered a hero by his po-lice *brothers.*  They're all sitting in some shitty po-lice station feeling persecuted and raging irrationally over all the *fuss* over a *dead nigger.*

{And black po-lice go along with it.  Black po-lice are the worst sell-outs, some of them even come to adopt their white masters hatred for black skin, while most of them grin and bear it, grateful for the only job they can get which will pay them the 50k - 70k they need to move away from their own people.}

All the Black Lives Matters protests in the world will never change the po-lice mindset. . .

I don't say this in any way to condone violence, but the po-lice will only change their tactics when ten or twenty of them are killed every day. . .and they will change their tactics only out of cowardice. . .they will be too terrified to continue lording it over the little men and women they think they rule.  Of course, if ten or twenty po-lice were killed every day, you'd see a mass exodus of the *men in blue.*

Believe me, whenever a po-lice is killed, even if it's a po-lice a thousand miles away, the po-lice I work with literally tremble in fear, imagining they are next.  

The entire United States po-lice forces are comprised of psychotics, dangerously out of touch with reality. . .they need to be replaced by genuine *peace officers,* human beings who want to help, and not hurt, their local communities, who have some guts and thick skin, and won't start firing wildly at their own shadow, which they think is a colored person coming after them.

Ha!  The po-lice kill hundreds of people every year, almost all of them unjustified, and yet the average Joe has no idea how unhinged and incompetent the po-lice are. They watch those dumb po-lice shows on TV and think real-life cops are, by and large, decent people working hard at a thankless job.  In reality, po-lice are lazy, gutless, racist, uninterested in community patrol, and receive tons of thanks. . .most po-lice spend their time going from one eatery to the next, stuffing their bellies with free food and drink, which they accept as their right.  They spend most of their shift looking the other way, and when they stumble by accident onto trouble, they immediately turn yellow and call for back-up, and then pull their guns.  Heaven help any poor bastard who comes their way. . .  

26 April 2017

The Church-Goers

Gender-Fluid American Church-Goer
24 April 2017, Daily Mail: The wife of schoolgirl 'kidnapper' Tad Cummins put on a brave face as she was seen for the first time since the disgraced teacher was captured and slapped with a federal child trafficking charge.  Jill Cummins decided to stay home Sunday, walking her dog and visiting friends rather than joining worshippers at the Columbia, Tennessee church where she and her husband would attend weekly services, sometimes taking along 15-year-old Elizabeth Thomas, the student Cummins is now accused of grooming for sex and abducting.

'As far as Jill was concerned their 31 year marriage was rock solid,' a friend said. 'But there's no coming back from the hurt and humiliation he's put her through. It was the ultimate betrayal.' 

The Tennessee teacher in earlier years held a series of quick-turn jobs, most lasting about a year. He was a dialysis machine technician, an office manager at a gas service, a plant employee at a sponge factory, a car salesman and, finally, a parts manager at an automotive store, before embarking on the course which would lead him to a teaching job and Elizabeth Thomas.  Cummins and the 15-year-old student spent ten days hiding at a remote hippy commune in the California wilderness where they posed as a married couple, planned to stay 'forever' and were seen 'making out' like lovers by a camp fire. Tad Cummins, 50, and missing teen Elizabeth Thomas arrived at Black Bear Ranch near Cecilville, California, two weeks ago hoping to start a new life after almost six weeks on the run. The isolated 'clothing optional' mountain community, located in Siskiyou County, has no phone signal, no internet connection and can only be accessed via a treacherous dirt road 15 miles long.

The pair told unsuspecting commune members that they were called John and Joanne, aged 44 and 24, had been married a year and had left their home state of Colorado where John worked as an EMT [Emergency Medical Technician] and a kayak instructor. But Cummins' conservative Christian beliefs, lazy work ethic and powder-keg temper soon led to conflict with commune residents and the couple's life on the run began to fall apart. And after just ten days on the ranch the pair was kicked off the property and fled to a campsite in nearby Cecilville. Two days later - after a tip off from a campsite caretaker - Cummins was taken into custody by a SWAT team who found him and Thomas holed up in an unfinished cabin next to a creek. Cummins has since been charged with aggravated kidnapping and sexual contact with a minor in Lawrence County, Tennessee, and faces up to 12 years in jail.  He also faces a federal charge of transportation of a minor across state lines with intent of having criminal sexual intercourse, which carries a minimum ten-year sentence, and further state charges in California.

April Showers, a 24-year-old transwoman from Pennsylvania, gave the couple a tour of the property when they first arrived. 'When they showed up they seemed really scared and apprehensive, his [Cummins] hands were shaking,' she said. 'But they soon settled down and he said, "This looks like home forever." They were clearly hoping to stick around for a long while.' The picturesque 80-acre community, founded in 1968 with the slogan 'free land for free people', runs off the grid and boasts several buildings, workshops and cabins, a lake, a meadow and a rope bridge over a stream. 

'We knew they were definitely having sex because we could hear them, we kind of thought she was young, even though she said she was 24. It didn't seem right. A few people said, 'wow, she's really young.' He told us he was 44, which was still a lot older than her. We were getting really weird vibes from them, they weren't integrating with the group, they were going off by themselves, they were asking for their own cabin, but we were like, 'no it's too soon'.'

April added, though, that she thought the couple seemed 'in love' - an idea that will sicken Thomas' family. 'They were constantly making out, she sat on his lap a lot,' she said. 'They were always attached to each other, they seemed genuinely in love, like lovers. It was weird to watch because he's a lot older and she's younger. 'She didn't say much, but you got the impression he was more like a doting father, rather than a dominant force.

Cummins and Thomas would sometimes stay in their attic room all day, sleeping in and having sex, the residents claim. 'They were up there for long periods,' April said. The attic room has a filthy, old double-mattress on the floor, surrounded by book shelves filled with dusty books. Cummins and Thomas rarely ventured out during the day. Commune rules suggest residents carry out a minimum of four hours work per day in order to contribute. Duties include cooking, cleaning, tending to the animals or collecting vegetables from the greenhouse – chores often carried out naked depending on the weather. But another resident, Sophia, who has lived at the commune for four years, said the couple was 'lazy'. 'If people allow it, you can make it here easy by doing very little. But everyone has to pull their weight,' she said. 'John (Cummins) didn't offer to help out, they did help with the chickens one time and did the dishes a couple of times, but they seemed lazy, they didn't want to do anything.'

Sophia, said the former health science teacher seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders – not surprising given the huge nationwide manhunt then underway to capture him and get his former student home safely. By contrast Thomas was 'having a blast' - a sign, perhaps, that Cummins had brainwashed her sufficiently to believe their trip was a long vacation. Little did she know that their journey would end with his sudden arrest and the prospect of 12 years behind bars for her kidnap. 'She was not scared at all, she seemed like she was having the time of her life, having a blast,' Sophia said.

But as the days went by the commune residents began to feel a 'negative vibe' around the couple. It was nearing their two-week check-in - a review all new arrivals go through - when all the other residents came to a consensus that they had to leave. 'John [Cummins] said they were Christians, but we made clear there is no religion at the commune, we're not about that,' said Sophia. 'They were really conservative in their views and prudish about any nudity, which is something we enjoy, and would even shower with their shorts on. 'And they were just not integrating or connecting with anyone, they had to go.'

'So I had a conversation with John [Cummins] and I told him they can't stay. He got really mad, he was growling and shouting, she said, "Calm down honey," she kept calling him honey. He was flipping out and I thought it was going to get crazy, we're out in the middle of nowhere here, anything could have happened. I managed to calm him down, but he was still angry. He said, 'You're prejudiced towards us because we're hetero [heterosexual], white Christians'. Then they left quick, they were gone.' Sophia added: 'We like to give people a shot, but if people don't fit I like to speed things up.'  Adding, in a plea to attract more suitable and interesting residents: 'We're looking for witches, queers, artists, writers, musicians, thinkers and revolutionaries, not fugitives and kidnappers.'

We are told in her time of need church-goer Jill Cummins, the betrayed wife who was kicked aside after what must have been a dreary, unsatisfying 31 years for her husband and jailbait addict Tad Cummins, stayed away from the Sunday service.

Isn't that interesting?

Hurt, abandoned, humiliated. . .Jill Cummins, in her darkest hours, stays away from church

Quite an advertisement for the faith. . .

One has to wonder: what was the point of Jill Cummins going to church all these years, if the church is of no value when she is suffering her greatest distress?

Why would a hurting church-goer hide from church?  Church, where the heavy laden are supposed to find rest.

Deep down, does she feel guilty?  Does she blame herself for her husband's pedophiliac outbreak?  

Does she look in the mirror at her glutton's body and see a gender-fluid nightmare?  A biological woman with a National Football League lineman's body? 

And did she nag Tad Cummins through his endless string of low-paying jobs, always hectoring him for more material gain?

Who knows?  All that is known for sure is Jill Cummins' husband ran away with a 15-year-old girl in an impossible sexual folly.  Even the most faultless wife would doubtless wonder over her share of the blame.  And so, perhaps, she didn't continue as a church-goer because of embarrassment and shame.  Didn't want to be seen by the other church-goers as the frumpy, dumpy wife whose 31 years of cohabitation produced a helter-skelter pedophile.  The larger point being:

The church-goer Jill Cummins didn't feel she would be comfortable in church.  So she stayed away.

American churches are notorious as the habitations of good people.  Church-goers who wear nice clothes and congratulate themselves on how much God loves them.  The truth being:

The Church today is the same as the House of Israel in Jesus' day: no place for sinners, misfits, the poor.

Stained by her husband's sin, Jill Cummins no longer qualified as a church-goer.  It may be the saving of her soul.  

Jesus wanted nothing to do with the House of Israel except to tear it down and rebuild it with Israel's lost sheep.  And Jesus wants nothing to do with today's Church of church-goers.  His mission remains ever the same:

They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. . .

The tree is judged by its fruit.  That the bruised Jill Cummins felt disqualified from the Church testifies to its rot.  May she now be blessed to hear the Call of the True Gospel of the Kingdom of God.

Tad Cummins was a church-goer, also. . until he became a jailbait-goer.  And yet he insisted, as he was being kicked out of his and his 15-year-old lover's Eden, that he was a member of the Church.

You're prejudiced towards us because we're hetero white Christians, he accused those who gave him and his 15-year-old lover sanctuary.

Spoken like a true American church-goer! 

Only the Lord Jesus Christ knows the true members of His Church. . .and yet had Tad Cummins behaved as if he were a true member, he'd probably still be on that filthy double mattress in the attic room at the Black Bear Ranch frolicking with his teenage lover.
Tad and Elizabeth spent many hours fucking on this mattress
But he was lazy, refusing to get off that filthy double mattress and do his chores.

He was judgmental, scandalized by his nudist hosts.

He was contrary, refusing to mix with the eccentric pagans who fed and housed him and his child pseudo-bride.

And when he wore out his welcome and was asked to leave, he became angry and cast himself and his Walmart Lolita as victims of the Faith.
Elizabeth wears her lover's shirt at a Walmart
While his hosts acted as Good Samaritans, Cummins acted like an entitled boor, exalting himself above the pagan customs of Black Bear Ranch. He alienated those who would have accepted him into their community, and gave them no choice but to ask him to depart. Had he behaved as Paul did amongst the barbarians at Melita, he and his girl-wife could have screwed every night till the cock crowed thrice.

The plain truth:

Tad Cummins' greater sin was not the leaving of cum stains on that filthy old double mattress in the attic room of Black Bear Ranch, but the filthy staining of the Faith of Christ he left with the pagan ranchers. And in the here-and-now, it cost him his freedom. . .

Yet I am sure he would run away with his underage lover all over again. All his adult life had been spent as a goer, going here, there and everywhere, going through the motions of the dead *American Way of Life,* most of it with a dumpy wife/ball and chain around his ankle, weighing down his every half-hearted step. . but when he got his one chance, he seized it.

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.

What else was he going to do?  Keep going to church?  Fake smiling and pretending he had found Life, when it was really just a circle of soul-jerkers?

I'm sure Tad Cummins will cherish the memory of his life on the run with his girl bed mate. . .it will sustain him through the years of incarceration, which, after all, will hardly be more dismal than what he had with his church-goer wife.  But will those memories sustain him in the here-after?  Through the unending weeping and gnashing of teeth?   

18 April 2017

The Sickness Within

17 April 2017, New York Post: A behavioral health worker randomly killed a Cleveland grandfather and posted video of the execution on Facebook. Police in Ohio urged residents in Pennsylvania, New York, Indiana and Michigan to be on the lookout for Steve Stephens, 37, who may have fled Cleveland after allegedly gunning down Robert Godwin Sr., 74.

Stephens worked for Beech Brook, a behavioral health agency headquartered in Pepper Pike serving children through mental health services, foster care and adoption, at-risk youth programs and other services. An arrest warrant was issued for the suspect, who is wanted on a charge of aggravated murder after posting the shaky video of himself confronting the elderly man — a father of nine and grandfather of 14 — holding a plastic bag.

“Found me somebody I’m going to kill,” he says, chillingly, on Easter Sunday. “I’m going to kill this guy right here. He’s an old old dude, too.”
[these are dangerous times for old negro dudes!He then asks his victim a “favor” by saying his girlfriend’s name, Joy Lane, whom Godwin said he didn’t know. “She’s the reason that this is about to happen to you,” Stephens tells Godwin, who then shields his face with the bag before being shot in the head.

Another Easter Sunday passed over, Americans living their Dream in the midst of the latest Military Media Complex barrage of fear:


North Korea

Syria, ISIS, Al Qaeda, the general Sand Nigger menace

All the noise these last weeks about the *threats* over there. . .

The Mother of All Bombs dropped. . .

Cruise missiles launched. . .

The ongoing and instigated colored people Battle Royale. . .

Ceaseless pointless war and rumors of war. . .here, there, everywhere. . .the reason for which changes so often and so frequently, the real reason is hidden and therefore must be more sinister than mere (ugly) corporatism.

Covered by this fog of fear (which generates near-unanimous consent to kill overseas), however, is the true threat to the nation:

The sickness within, as exampled by the psychotic action of the obese negro Steve Stephens.

With social media live-streaming, who can continue to pretend to see no evil or hear no evil?  Everyday the internets are filled with videos of rapes, assaults and murders.  Who can wade through the live stream of filth and not take notice of the obvious:

America is in a state of derangement.

The degree of violence should appall.  A reasonable people would take action, yet conditioned by the Military Media Complex to only recognize external threats, Americans accept with irrational indifference the threat within.

But it is not merely the number of assaults, rapes and murders in the United States that indicates American derangement (there have been more statistically violent eras in the past).  It is the collective sociopathic belief that violence is the solution to conflict, whether the conflict is internal or external, individual or national.

On the individual level, we observe the obese negro Steve Stephens, apparently internally conflicted by rejection from an obese negress (ironically) named Joy Lane.  Feeling *hurt* by Joy Lane, Steve Stephens self-medicates through violence.  With Joy Lane in his ears and in his eyes, Stephens believes he can repay her by murdering a random old negro, and blaming the murder on Lane's rejection.  There beneath the blue urban skies, Steve Stephens records the murder and broadcasts it on social media, hoping to smother Joy Lane with guilt.  He further alleviates his own pain with his newfound notoriety, and heightens the euphoria by threatening to repeat the action.

Is this learned behavior?  Or the result of his own organic defect?  Who knows?  But Steve Stephens action certainly emulates state action.  The United States feels rejected by Afghanistan, self-medicates by dropping a massive bomb to kill random coloreds, records the murders and displays them through Media, with the President reveling in the notoriety and threatening to repeat the action against other colored states.

In the ever-violent American past, there remained a healthy *peace* remnant who leavened American sociopathy. Peaceful solutions were sought.  There is no *peace movement* in present-day America.  Even in the churches, led by so-called *followers of Christ,* there are only prayers for the military.  

It is true the vast majority of Americans would condemn Steve Stephens. . .and of that vast majority, I would wager a vast majority would devil grin through a video of him being riddled with bullets in a po-lice shoot-out, or stand cheering outside prison walls as the state serves him a lethal injection.

Even though the Lord of Creation disavows the violent tactics of the Kingdom of America, Americans now accept as gospel the Satanic doctrine of violence, believing that violence is the solution to every problem, including violence.  

Jesus, the perfect reasoned intelligence, reveals the insanity of such thinking when He asks how can Satan cast out Satan?

Only a deranged people would believe it. . .

23 March 2017

Hero of the War on Terror

New York Daily News, 23 March 17: He was a white Army vet on a sick mission to kill black men. James Jackson, 28, rode a bus from Baltimore to New York Friday with the sole purpose of stalking and killing black men for a statement-making media spectacle, police said. He’s accused of fatally stabbing Timothy Caughman, 66, in Midtown on Monday night. Cops said Jackson’s deep-seated racism stretched back more than a decade — to a time before he entered the military in March 2009. Jackson ended up serving a little more than three years with the Army, bouncing from Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri to Fort Huachuca in Arizona before a tour in Afghanistan from December 2010 to November 2011, Army officials said. Records show Jackson received several awards for his service including an Army Good Conduct Medal, a Global War on Terrorism Service Medal and an Afghanistan Campaign Medal with two campaign stars. Police said Jackson is a member of a known hate group in Maryland but did not identify the group. Attempts to reach Jackson's relatives were not successful. . .

While most of the Western world once again kneels at the altar of terror (pray for London! but who do they pray to?  the unknown god of Social Media, one must suppose, for their prayers seem to go no further than Facebook or Twitter), one Hero of the war on terror has turned himself in, and proudly, for the act of killing a random negro. . .

Well, can we admit, in AmerICKa, at least, we are more likely to be killed by a military veteran, one of those troops we are told we must unconditionally support, than by a jihadi?  

And if we are being honest, aren't even the deaths-by-jihadi born in AmerICKan military mischief (read here if you've forgotten the history)?

Pity the poor negro## who had to learn the hard way:

For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. . .

##The military is your sword, AmerICKa, they swing it for you, so don't be surprised when it falls on your neck, due to the derangement of the troops you support, or the enemies they make.

01 March 2017

And The Violent Take It By Force

My brain feels like it is being slammed from one side of my skull to the other. I press my forehead against the window. Eleven more hours. That's all it's down to, eleven hours. Then I will be reborn. Eight thousand two hundred fifty four days, and now it's down to just eleven hours. Well, add on the time it takes to get there from the station. Eleven hours and whatever.

The cold glass of the window don't really help the aching in my head. It's psychological. I learned that. I need to calm down. I can't get ahead of myself.

He'll be an old man. And I will be the age he was. So I was never me.

It's like my brain is trying to run away from its thoughts—but it's trapped inside the skull.  It's crashing from one side of the skull to the other, trying to bust out.  I made it almost twenty-three years, I can't let my head crack open now.

The bus pulls out.  Except for the brakes, it's quiet.  It's a quiet bus.  Not a lot of engine noises.  Or mechanical sounds.  Like screws are loose and metal pieces are rattling around.  There aren't any sounds like that.

I'm leaving Marquette behind.  I felt nothing going in there, and I feel nothing leaving.  It meant nothing to me.  Just waiting.  Headaches and waiting.


We pull into the station at Gladstone.  No, it's not even a bus station.  Just a gas station.  A Shell station.  These little hick towns. That's all we'll pass through.  Little hick towns.  Nothing towns.  Greyhound don't even come through here.  I'm on an Indian Trails bus.  Indian Trails, like this is the wilderness or some shit.  It's just hick.  It's just nothing towns.  It'll be the same in Clare.  I'll get off at the gas station at the truck stop on 127.  

Nobody gets off here, except the driver.  A fat nigger.  He puts his coat on and gets off the bus.  Where's that nigger going?  Looks like the fat nigger is just standing there, smoking a cigarette.  His cigarette smoke looks thick in the cold air.

Niggers like menthol cigarettes.

It wouldn't be a bad job, being a bus driver.  Maybe I'll look into it.  That's stupid, though.  I don't even know how to drive a car.  Stupid.  What kind of job am I going to get?  Cleaning shitters somewhere?  Nigger work.

Who's that nigger talking to?  Is that a white girl?  Shit, we even had us a nigger President, and now a pissant nigger bus driver gets white women.  No, but it's been that way for years and years now.  All the nigger footballers get white women.  They can even kill them and nobody does shit about it.

The nigger driver gets back on the bus.  The white girl gets on, too.  She's a passenger. 


My eyelids get heavy.  And then, kind of fuzzy and cross-eyed, I see that white girl who was talking to the nigger bus driver.  She gets out of her seat and walks back this way.  She's going to the shitter.  She's about to open the shitter door, but she looks over at me.  She stares at me for a second, then goes into the shitter.  I hear her latch the door.  I hear the toilet seat bang down.  A couple minutes later I hear the toilet paper rolling, then a moment later I hear the toilet flush.  The water from the sink.  Then the paper towel dispenser.  Then the latch.  The door opens and the white girl comes out.  Some of the stink she made in the shitter follows her.

She sits in the aisle seat in my row.  There is one empty seat between us.

"Hi," she says.

I take a long look at it.  

Then I look out the window.

I saw that its skin looked a little rough.  And it had a zit at the corner of its nose.  Like a miniature white balloon.  Like if a white balloon had been miniaturized by some kind of scientific shrinking device.  Shrunk down to the size of a popcorn kernel.  Popcorn balloon zit.  Its body was between average and fat, hard to be more exact with all its winter gear covering it.

"Betcha I know where you got on," it says.

Its reflection is in the window.

"Marquette," it says.

My brain is getting upset, again.

"Know how I know?" it says.

"Your clothes.  Brand new Dickies.  State bought them for you, didn't they?"

I don't look at it.  I look out the window, through its reflection.  It keeps talking.

"I had a man in Marquette.  And when he come out, he was wearing Dickies, just like you.  But he wasn't a man, no more.  They shot him so full of prolixin, he was just a zombie.  Always chewing, and nothing in his mouth.  Poor baby.  Wonder whatever happened to him?"

"Move on," I say to it, still looking out the window.

"I know you don't really mean that, sweetie," it says. 

Then it whispers:

"I'll give you an Indian Trails wedding night for forty.  I know you got to have at least forty on you."

I can still smell a little bit of its stink from the shitter.

"Move on, now.  That would be the best thing."

"You know what an Indian Trails wedding night is, don'tcha, sweetie?" it says, still whispering.  Then it moves closer.  "I'll snuggle tight against ya and stick my tongue in your ear and my hand down your brand new Dickies.  Thirty-five, just cuz you're so sweet."

I can't let this dirty whore crack my head open.

"Let me see your hands," I say.

It puts one of its hands on my thigh and starts rubbing, real light.

"Don't that feel good?  When's the last time you had a woman touch you?"

I remember exactly the last time a woman touched me.  It didn't end well.  Fat old piece of shit thought it could drag me into the blackness of Hell.  No.  No, sir.  No.  Nobody's sending me to Hell.

"You're dirty," I say to it.

"You bet I'm dirty," it whispers.

"You got dirt under your fingernails."

It stops rubbing my leg.  

"That's probably shit under your nails.  You were just in the shitter, wiping your shit ass.  You got shit under your nails."

It turns red.  It starts to open its mouth.  It probably wants to say something angry.  I shake my head.  It hurts to do it, but I do it.

"Don't you say a God damned word," I tell it.  "Or I'll laugh real loud and tell everyone on this God damned bus you're nothing but a dirty shit-hand whore."

It glares at me.  I can see the thoughts raging behind its eyes, crashing back and forth in its head.  Its trying to find something in its brain to fire back at me.  But there's nothing. No.  No, sir.  No.  There can be nothing.

I laugh.

"No weapon formed against me shall prosper," I tell it.

I'm done with it.  I look out the window.  I see its reflection as it gets up and walks to another seat.


I open my eyes.   Out the window I can see a mangled deer on the side of 127.  Robbie would be sad.  She liked animals more than people.  Maybe that's why we were almost friends.


The bus pulls into the Marathon station at Cid's Truck Stop.  Clare.  Home again.  I got to keep my brain in check just a little longer.

I think about walking by Robbie's house, but that would be stupid.  First, she wouldn't be there.  Everybody leaves Clare.  Second, she's had a whole life.  So even if she were still around, she'd be used up, by now.

I thought maybe she might send me a letter—stupid.

I never did learn how to properly relate with other people.

But I was able to talk to Robbie.  I maybe talked to her three times in the 11th grade.  I saw her once at lunch time, outside.  A little baby bird had fallen out of its nest, and she was trying to help it.  "Just step on it and be done with it," I says.  "You're ignorant," she says.  And then she told me a long story how animals were better than people.  Maybe a month later I stole this little keychain that had a rabbit's foot on it.  I gave it to her in the hallway at her locker.  "Here," I says, "I know you like animals."  She didn't say anything.  Maybe a month later I stole this feather necklace from the Indian store.  "Here," I says to her, "I know you like animals."  "You're weird," she says.  She ran her fingertips along the edge of the feather.  Real gentle.  "Is this a real eagle's feather?" she says.  "I don't know," I says.  I can still remember her pretty, clean hands, her slender fingers very gently touching the edge of the feather.  I never talked to her again.


It's four miles from the truck stop to the house.

Clare hasn't changed too much.  I can find my way, no problem.  There is a Subway now at the truck stop.  They sell sandwiches.  There are some other new stores in town, and some of the old ones look different.  The street signs look different, but they say the same things.  The houses are the same, but some of them look even more beat-up.  

Cars drive by, I see people looking at me.  They don't know who I am.  In a hick town like this, you never see a new face.  Well, there might be a few left who could maybe recognize me.  Maybe.  It doesn't matter.  I won't be here long.


The cold doesn't bother me.  I'm warmer out here in this cheap jacket with a little sun hitting me than I was up in my cell in Marquette.


There it is.  Home.

I stand out front and look at it.  The place never was much.  It's worse, now.  The front porch sags.  The paint is cracked.  Shingles missing from the roof.  Gutter torn loose at one end.  This is where I come from.  Shabby.  I come from a shabby place.  I guess it fits.  

I walk up to the storm door.  The glass isn't it.  Still got the screen in.  I grab the handle and pull.  It's locked.  I bang my fist on the bottom of the door, the aluminum part.  That makes a nasty sound, that cheap metal rattling, bouncing around.

I stand there, waiting for him to open the front door.  I won't have to bang on the storm door again.  He'll look to see if whoever it was is gone.  That's how he is.  I used to watch him peeking out.  That's his nature.  Too timid to just open the fucking door.  He'll peek, and then he'll see me.

I stand at the door.  I'm in no hurry.  Time no longer matters.  The eight thousand two hundred fifty four days is gone.  There is only eternity, now.

I look in the mailbox—nothing in it but rust.

I look around at the old neighborhood—there's nothing to see.

I look at the sky.  It's gray.

This is freedom: looking at a gray sky.

The door opens.  There he is.  My brain tries to leap out at him.

An old man.  White hair, too long.  White stubble on his face.  Dirty t-shirt.  

"I knew this day was coming," he says.  There's not much left to his voice.  A tired old man in a dirty t-shirt.

Some people believe the whole world is an accident, but accidents would never produce anything so raggedy.  No.  No, sir.  No.  When you look at a worn-out old man like this, you see the work of God.

"Open up," I say.

"This won't help you," he says.

There are some crusty stains on his shirt, like maybe he blew his nose on it.

"What won't help?" I say.

He looks over my shoulder.  There's no one he can call to.

"What won't help?" I repeat.

"Whatever it is you're planning."

"What am I planning?"

He tries to look me in the eye, but I just shake my head, and then he's studying his feet.

"What am I planning?"

"I don't know."

"Then how can you know if it will help or not?"

I pull the storm door.

"Open it."

"I can't do that," he says.

"You know I'm coming in there.  Why have a broken door?"

"I'll call the police," he says.

"You know the cord will be wrapped around your neck before you can say 'help.'"

He stands there, thinking.  Trying to think of some way to escape the next few minutes.

"You need to believe me.  This will not hurt you.  This will not hurt you, physically.  Let me in.  Do what I ask.  It will all be over in ten minutes.  And you can go back to your life, whatever that is."

"You promise?" he says.

Promise?  What is that in this world?  You would think people would be used to being knocked around.  You would think they could take a step without worrying that anything can happen.

"I promise."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He looks at me, trying to weigh my character.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

He unlocks the door.  I step inside.  The television is different.  Thinner.  One of those thin ones.  Everything else is the same.  The same as the old man.  Worn by time.  Everything in here was cheap when it was kinda new twenty-five years ago.  Now it's all worn out, too.  Old, cheap shit.  The crap life.

"I don't have any money," he says.

My brain seizes up.

"I know that.  And what the fuck would money mean to me?"

"I don't know.  I don't know what you want.  What do you want?"

I remember when they took me out of here.  My hands were swollen and bruised, hurt like Hell.  Hell.  But my head hurt worse than my hands.  I caught sight of the old man as they walked me out.  He was standing, all shriveled-looking.  More shriveled than usual.  Shriveled up in a corner.  I knew right then it had to be a double cure to get rid of my headaches.  Fuck.  I began waiting right then and there.  Eight thousand two hundred fifty four days.

"What do you want?"

"All you got to do is come over here, kneel down, suck me."

He doesn't say anything.  A little noise comes out of his mouth.  Not a word, just a little sound.  Like a puff of breath or something.  Like a quiet little fart come out of his mouth.  His eyes are wide.  He shakes his head. I see him look at the little shitty table by the hall that runs to the kitchen.  There's a telephone on it.  I walk over.  It's one of them new phones.  All one piece.  No cords or nothing.  I throw it hard against the far wall, and it comes flying apart.  

"You're gonna have to suck me," I tell him.

"I. . .I can't. . .I can't do. . .that."

"I WILL shoot in your mouth.  I will.  It's only a matter of whether you are alive or dead when the come shoots out."

He has a coughing fit.  I take off my jacket and throw it on the couch.  The old lady used to lay her fat ass on that thing and watch her programs. That couch has took a lot of hurt.

"I can't do that," he says, whisper-like.

"Sure you can.  Men do it all the time.  It's easy.  I seen it done by probably a hundred guys in Marquette.  They didn't think nothing about it.  Shit, seemed like they liked it, even."

"I won't," whisper-like.

I walk over.  Hit him on the side of his head, right above the ear.  Hit him hard, but not too hard.  He gasps and buckles to the floor.  He lays in a little ball.

"Alive or dead."

He rubs the spot where I hit him.  Looks like he could cry.

"Why you doing this to me?"

I shake my head.  It hurts real bad, now.

"My brain has been killing me since I was six years old.  And you let her do her dirty business.  You got to finish the cure."

"I didn't know anything about it," he whimpers.

"You God damned liar.  You get on your God damned knees right now and suck, or I will pound your God damned head in.  I will drive your God damned skull into your brain, just like I did her."

He wobbles up onto his knees.

"Get my pants down."

He fiddles around with the button, my headache splitting my brain.  I knock his hands out of the way, push my pants and underwear down.  My limp cock hangs right in front of his nose.  Are you picturing this?  Picture it.  No accident could produce such a vision.  It is as the Book says it is.  The violent take it by force.  So I feel no guilt.  No guilt at all.

"Suck it."

He's crying.  Quiet crying.


I pound him on the other side of the head, with my left hand.  He falls over. Now the crying is loud.  Shit, I never cried.  I grab a handful of his long white hair and yank him to his knees.


He's got some tears, now.  And a little snot drip.  He opens his mouth, sort of blubbers.  

"Suck it or I'll hit you for real.  Like I hit her.  You seen it.  You want your skull like that, in pieces?"

He leans forward.  He takes my cock like he's getting a drink from a water fountain, his head kind of tilted to the side, his mouth underneath it, then he just sort of laps at it.  I grab two fistfuls of his hair and pull him all the way on it.  I start to go at it.  He tries to resist, gagging and crying, spluttering, but he ain't strong enough to break my grip.  I go at it for a bit, but my cock ain't really hard.  My head hurts too bad.


She'd stopped for a few years.  I'd gotten bigger.  I always knew it was wrong.  Her dirty business.  It stank down there.  She was fat, and her hole down there stank.  She'd close her legs around my head and start writhing.  Like a demon was in her.  A snake demon.  Writhing her legs with my head on her stinking hole.  Writhing, shaking my head.  My head rolling on her hole, my brain rolling.  It was black, her legs wrapped around me so tight I couldn't see, my head would start to hurt real bad and her hole stank.  That hole was the entrance to Hell.  

Six years old.  Seven years old.  Eight years old.  Nine years old.  Ten years old.  Maybe around ten years old she wondered if I could get in her hole, too.  If she could get my cock in her hole.  She tried lots of times to get me in her hole, but it wouldn't work.  It took me another year maybe to get strong enough to push her fat ass off.  Then it quit for a long while.  And then one day when I was seventeen, she come up to me and put her hand on my pants and said "you must get hard by now."

The newspaper said I gave her a "savage beating."

I told the police and all the court people my story.  Not looking for any favor, just out of respect for the truth. But the old man did not back me.  Didn't want the shadow of it falling on him.

Anyway, when they walked me out of there, and I seen him shriveled in the corner, I knew he was partly to blame.  He had part blame in my headaches.  He'd have to take his part of a double cure for my brain hurting so God damn bad.  But his sin was less than hers.  His skull didn't have to be broken into pieces.  I could shoot in his mouth, and the pain would be done with.  His sin was less than hers.  His sin was less, like Pilate.  Pilate, from the Bible.  You should read the Bible.


I feel a little bad for the old man, struggling over my limp cock.  I need to help him through this.  We both can be cured, then.  

There's Robbie.  With her pretty hands.  Her slender fingers.  Gently touching the edge of the eagle feather.  I see myself holding her hand.  Her clean hand.  Her hand touching my hand, the way God planned it.  

There's Robbie.  With her pretty hands.  Her slender fingers.  Gently touching the edge of the eagle feather.  I see myself holding her hand.  Her clean hand.  Her hand touching my hand, the way God planned it.

There's Robbie.  With her pretty hands.  Her slender fingers.  Gently touching the edge of the eagle feather.  I see myself holding her hand.  Her clean hand.  Her hand touching my hand, the way God planned it.

I'm nearly choking the old man, he's trying to get loose of it, but there's Robbie.  With her pretty hands.  Her slender fingers.  Gently touching the edge of the eagle feather.  I see myself holding her hand.  Her clean hand.  Her hand touching my hand, the way God planned it.

I shoot it.  

I let go of the old man.  I got clumps of his white hair in my hands.  He's choking and spitting out the mess.  His face is fire red.

I wait.  

I count to ten.  Then twenty.  Then thirty.  My brain don't hurt.  It's all settled down.

"You go clean yourself," I tell the old man.  "You did right."


As he's washing himself in the bathroom, I get to thinking:

It ain't so bad here.  Maybe I could get a little job cleaning shitters at the truck stop.  I learned how to clean shitters in Marquette.  Maybe I could clean shitters at the Subway.  Make a little money.  Help the old man fix up the place.  Clean it up.  Paint it.  Do some repairs or what not.  We're square now, the old man and me.  We could start again.  Start all over from zero.  It's not much, but what is much in this world?