I am nothing in the material world. I have no house, I'd ran from it years ago; I have no family, they have all decayed and rotted away. I have no job and no will to participate in society. So I have been forgotten by society, and now I am but a lurking shadow, a mist enshrouded figure in a back alley, tucked away in a shadowy corner at the edge of your vision; a mysterious presence in the back of your mind. I am living in a world that is no longer my home. One day, I believe, naught will be left of me but a dissipating fog, gone forever, and lost to humanity. My cardboard box, my temporary home, in which I have been living has become useless. It is quite pointless as I no longer sleep. I cannot allow myself the escapisms of the bottle or syringe - they cloud my mind with false visions. Masked prophets lead lemmings and sheep to their sad, pathetic fates (not to express that my fate is any less sad or pathetic -I simply will not be led by such facades). I do not possess the material means to obtain these items, nor will I beg or steal.

Just what the world needs - a bum with morals.

Because that's all I am, a bum, a member of the downtrodden masses - I'm not even a common bum, for they have a place, an identity, friends. They are annoying as they plead for money and food, projecting onto you the message that if they do not receive that which they are begging for they will die a miserable and horrible death on the streets, and that you, with just a few strokes of bad luck or a few mistakes could end up on the streets with that desperate plea in your eyes.

I have no identity, nor do I long for one - I simply wear a long, brown overcoat which covers me from the outside world and a wide brimmed hat to shield the light from my eyes and the stares of those who look my way and see nothing but a blank reflection of their own selves. I speak not a word, gazing back at the blank stares of those who see me as I wander about my way. I am in pain. I hurt inside, deep down where lies the well of my being. The pain is not born of my exclusion from the common material world. I despise almost every aspect of it. I am who I am and where I am because I have failed. I am a failure. All my might, my powers, my plans, my allies, my war - all lost and blown to the four winds on the wings of midnight black crows. All my efforts. My plans only worsened things, made the gangrenous sores fester and become more infected. I am a failure even more than I was an idealistic, ignorant fool. Like sand, anything of worth slipped through my fingers, only the sand cut like chards of glass, leaving behind wounds that cut so deep in my soul I now feel I have nothing left to bleed. I am an empty, foolish failure.

Although the wounds have not healed, and I have not died, all that is left only remains to remind me, to torture my existence with memories. I loath my self, my failure, my sanity. Yet am I truly sane? I believe I am seeing facts and the past with amazing accuracy, but so do the insane and delusional. No matter - I am what I am and there is nothing I can do about it now.

I am nothing now, a word I traditionally thought impossible - but that's what I am, a nothing. I am a fool, and a man without a face. A shadow, a hazy remnant of an only partially-remembered dream, for my face is buried in the shadows of myself, wallowing in my own self-pity. The truth lies in the back of my bruised, beaten, worthless mind.

I have since left the decaying city and traveled through much wilderness and many roads that lead to many nameless towns making up this world. I now lie in a dark forest many miles from were I started my journey. I sit and lie in that state just between sleep and waking, drifting off. A messenger comes forward bearing a gift. He timidly creeps forward and drops it into my palm. I doze off as my tiny animal messenger bounds away for the safety and cover of the trees. I awake and remember the arrival of my gift and the nature of my messenger - or was it all a dream, a hallucination, a vision of a delusional mind? I do not know or care whether what I had thought I witnessed was an actual event or not.

All that truly matters is that as I sit there holding my gift, an acorn, I felt its heartbeat - or was it my own blood pumping in my veins? It does not matter, I felt life and knew I possessed it.

It was time to rejoin the war, fight new battles, avenge old losses and fight for my ideals.

I stood up in the forest, and the wind blew across my face and ran its fingers through my hair, sending it dancing atop my head. I could smell something in the wind - was it change? Renewal? I couldn't be sure, but I trod up, toward the dirt roads, toward the nearby town of Beezlewood.

The wind whistled a message to me. Consciously I could not decipher it, yet my subconscious was picking it up intuitively and processing it into my mind. Nature was on my side. Me and the earth mother was in harmony with one another. I was being called.

On the outskirts of town as the eve got darker, the birds gave way to crickets and the sun gave way to the moon and the streetlamps turned on, I felt eyes drawn upon me. In paranoia, I slowly scanned the land surrounding me, seeing nothing, and damning my heightened senses.

I walked on, toward a restaurant were I saw a payphone. I checked my pockets - deep within I found a lone quarter, just enough to call the number that played over and over in my head. I inserted the quarter and dialed the numbers I knew so well. "Hello?" A voice answered.

I hung up.

Was it her?

Her voice echoed in my mind, like a song you loved to hate but had to love, had to admire, had to drown yourself in. Such a sweet voice. So much like her beautiful eyes and pale features, the way that lock of hair touched down upon her chin and how that energy seemed to irradiate off of her and pull you ever closer to her. Her soft lips.

I walked away from the phone booth, hands in my pocket, trying to quiet down my mind so I could gather my thoughts. My thoughts were disrupted by the sudden sound of motorcycles pulling into the parking lot. I turned my head, feeling eyes on me from the other direction.

There I saw him - the man with a cigar in his mouth and an evil glare in his eye, looking straight at me and laughing maniacally. He pointed at me and two shadowy figures came up to me and placed a bag over my head. I felt a sharp pain in the back of my skull, and then... blackness.

i got to thinking (which is usually 23 hours per day)
and i realized just how corny pacman overload sounded
so i changed it to:cereal killer
OK , so please make note of it

thank you

Too many years have gone by with the fifties "Leave it to Beaver" lifestyle for anyone to realize that there is so much more to life. A career and a family is just a ball and chain around your ankles dragging you down. We have to learn to smile and say "Whatever" instead of dwelling deeper into the meaningless circle of life. Oh, look; 1:23 p.m.. Whatever.

Glancing around at all the filth, he wonders why he doesn't kill them all right now. A glimmer of light holds him back. Alone, sitting at her table, her green eyes hypnotize everyone in a ten foot radius. He moves his eyes away as not to stare. Then he notices her lips. Beautiful lips to die for. Lips that beg to be kissed. looking her over he guesses she is about twenty-three.

He walks over to her table. He never was too good at talking to women, but he decided to give in a shot. Nervously, he says "This place sucks. Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"Huh? Oh," she realizes that it was her he was speaking to. This man in front of her, looking to be in his early twenties, very handsome, and in a long black trench coat, just walked over to her and started talking. He seemed polite enough although it was an odd conversation starter. It was a very tantalizing offer, though. She glanced around at the filth inhabiting the dance floor. "Yeah, you're right. Let's book." Standing up, she tosses $3 on the table for drinks and tip. Together, they walk outside leaving behind the filthy worms dancing to the crappy rhythms and hypnotizing strobe lights.

"I just realized I left something in there," he said,"Stay here and I'll be right back." With that she is left alone. As the door closes behind him, a stream of bright light escapes through the openings. "Someone hit a light switch," she thought.

He steps out and the light is gone. "Okay, let's go," he says.

"My name's Mary," she says to get the conversation started.

"James" he returns. They walk in silence for a while. Neither of them knowing where they are going.

"Let's go in here" she blurts out spotting a coffee shop ahead.

She scans around the room for signs of what happened in the time since she left the nightclub. The clock by the bed says 12:23 p.m.. The mini-bar is open and what looks to be one bottle of Jack Daniels and four Skyy vodkas setting on top. On a table nearby: two unfinished glasses, a Jagermiester bottle, and a piece of paper. Her clothes were strewn about the couch. From all this she realizes that they had moved on to his hotel room, got drunk, and probably slept together. Probably, because she is in denial even though three empty condom packages on the nightstand say otherwise.

Getting up, she walks over to the table by the couch and finishes off the alcohol left in the glasses. It was not enough to help her hangover so she walked into the bathroom to look for some Advil. Looking in the mirror as she reaches for the handle of the medicine cabinet, she blanks out and falls to the floor.

Mary wakes up six hours later and staggers over to the couch. If she passes out again she doesn't want to hit the floor. She turns on the television. "This is news channel 5 bringing you a live report from downtown where in this seedy nightclub, twenty-three people are found dead." It was the same nightclub she had met James in last night. Apparently, she had just escaped the disaster. With waking up in a hotel room and the news report, she was beginning to get frightened. She wanted nothing more than to leave and forget all about the strange man in a trench coat who she might have slept with last night.

His footsteps tap gently on the newly tiled floor. Carrying twenty-three roses for Mary, he enters the elevator and presses 23. The doors close and the two ton hunk of steel begins to head towards his floor.

The doors open and he steps out onto the maroon carpet. The door says 23b in front of him. Turning the handle, a strange sensation overtakes him. An intuition not to open the door.

Inside, Mary stands cautiously by the door ready to beat the crap out of the hapless fellow who decides to walk through the door. The second she heard the soft thud of footsteps hitting the carpet, she ran to the door poised to strike.

James decided that if there is a danger beyond the door, he might as well face it. He grabbed the handle and turned. Locked. He reached into his trench coat and fumbled for his keys when the door was flung open and Mary lunged after him. As he hit the wall the roses fell to the floor. He was twenty-three years old and more than able to fight back, but somehow he knew not to. "Who are you? What do you want you creep?" she attempted to drill out of him. She then realized who he was.

She looked down at the roses. "For me? Were these...are these... for me?" she stuttered.

"Yeah" he answered.

"Why thank you. How sweet. Thank you James."

"What was wrong? Why did you attack me?"

"I was alone. Afraid. I saw on the news...the nightclub...mass murderer...just after we left, I guess." she said gasping for breath as the tears flow out like raindrops.

"Didn't you get my note?"

"No. The one on the end table by the couch?"

"Yeah"

"No"

"It said that I went out and would be right back."

"Oh, sorry"

"Whatever"

"I'm sorry"

"Let's go inside"

"Yeah, sure"

Today, Mary wakes up for work just like any other day. But to her surprise, James was gone. "Musta left early. A walk or something" she thinks, comforting herself. He was weird that way. Going for walks at odd times.

Looking on the kitchen table she spots his wallet. "He must have forgot to grab it" she says to herself. James never let her see his wallet and she always wanted to know why. Now was her chance to find out. She opened it up. A normal wallet with cash and credit cards. But when she looked where his driver's licence would be had he had one, to her surprise she found a CIA identification card. "Division 23," she said, "figures."

"I don't believe he never told me this" She thought for a second and then realized, "There is no division 23. It's either a fake or a secret section unknown to anyone with even high security clearance" she told herself. Both possibilities were highly likely knowing James. Although she doubted it was a fake as weird as he is. Shrugging it off, she had decided she would ask him later. But for now, she had to get to work.

It's September 23, and summer is winding down. Last chance to bring his plans into action. He chose Oklahoma City for a reason. The center of the U.S.. For he who controls the U.S.A., controls the world.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do is hurt Mary, but all she has done so far is delay his plans. Walking out in the middle of the street, horns honk as they nearly miss running him over. He doesn't care. He raises his hands into the air. Lightning flies from his fingertips in one continuous burst. Cars wreak as their drivers' brains burst out of their skulls. The plague of death spreads throughout the land.

"That'll be $23.75" Mary says to the customer milliseconds before his head explodes. Somehow she had survived while everyone else died violently. Probably because she had said "23" when she should have died. "Damn, I knew he was up to something! He was just too perfect not to be evil." she said to herself as an intuition told her who was responsible for the deaths.

She took out the handgun from the locked drawer underneath the cash register. The colt 45 glistened in the light given off by the Mountain Dew sign. It was a true beauty. So much power in this little hunk of metal. It was only to be used in case of a robbery, but this was far more important. She decided to go to Main street because that is where he usually went whenever he wanted to be alone. It would at least be a place to start from.

Twenty-three minutes later, just as the plague of death reached the edge of the state, James let his guard down. To him, he was unstoppable now.

Pow pow pow pow. Shocked, he looked down at his chest, or lack thereof. Staggering, he turned around. Mary stood there with smoking gun. "Why? I loved you." he struggled to say.

"Why!? Why!? You tried to kill me you stupid asshead! That's why!"

"Does this mean the wedding's off?" with that, he fell to the street and the plague of death stopped suddenly. He always did have a good sense of humor.

"Fuck you!!" she screamed at the lifeless body lying in the street.

The news caught wind of what had happened and before long, everyone who had friends or family members in Oklahoma rallied up in front of the CIA in Langly and burst in despite efforts from the National Guard. In front, leading everyone of the roughly fourteen thousand protesters on, was Mary. Breaking down scores of doors labeled "TOP SECRET" in one long corridor, they were led into the unknown section 23.

A literal factory of alien workers working together with the devil himself building hundreds of Jamess with trench coats. She realized that her beloved James was just a prototype of this outrageous scheme for world domination.

Eventually, Mary was voted in leader of the United States as all of the government officials were hanged publicly like in the 19th century. The aliens lived with the humans and the devil taught a class on human nature and individuality in Harvard and lived a normal life with Christians. Peace was achieved.

"You think I'm an ass?" He asks me.

"No, Rewired, I didn't say that at all. I said that you remind me of Eeore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh, not that you were an ass." I reply.

"But I remind you or Eeore, Eeore is a donkey and a donkey is an ass. Therefore, you think I'm an ass."

"No, that's not it at all. You remind me of Eeore because Eeore is sad and mopey, but not really whiny. You're just like that. I'm referring to his character, not which species of which genus he belongs to, you dork."

That's the typical Rewired that I know. Paranoia runs rampant through his brain. When it comes to character, one comment gets blown way out of proportion and turns into a problem.

"One thing, though," I add. "Eeore was never as touchy as you are."

An overactive imagination and way too much coffee give Rewired an inner turmoil that no one else can figure out. No matter where he is or what he does, he's almost always distracted by something else. I have spent a lot of time with him, and while we still have fun together, he rarely lives in the moment.

Look at me and see me smile
Stare, and it might last awhile.

Turn away and you'll never know,
What new attitude will show.

I hide it well, become mysterious,
How many people are really curious?

Do you want to know the real me?
You think you can handle what you see?

I'm not like others; I don't follow,
In the new-age monotony, they wallow.

I pick my medium versatile,
So look at me and you will smile.

It was a cool day in November, and the leaves were dry and flowing in the autumn wind. Dry leaves, hrm. Death. The season just before death, just before it all gets cold and dies away as is smothered by a thick coating of frosty white stuff. Death has always frightened me - the concept defined by the collective of mankind, of course, not the actual thing. Death, as a reality, is none other than transition to another place or plane of reality. I don't believe you wither away into dust and your consciousness ends where your material brain does. It extends beyond this world.

Now death in the way that mankind defines it scares me without a single doubt. Bring to me the very question of whether I will live on as a consciousness after I die and I will answer in a firm I WILL SURVIVE. I cannot fathom my nonexistence. Nonexistence exists, indeed, but only because everything must, and nothingness, or nonexistence, must also be present somewhere in the equation. So if I cease to exist I must also, simultaneously exist at another level. Both truth and lie, fantasy and reality, life and death, existence and nonexistence. What - I'm not making any sense? Don't worry, I get a lot of that - I'm chaotic right-brained fantasy-prone border-line schizophrenic stream of consciousness boy. I'm damn proud to have a label. Without them I might be nothing, but a prominent nothing, a nothing coated in something. Personality, differentiation from other personalities - it's the only thing that keeps us alive, existent. Yet, what could possibly be the purpose? Or is looking for a purpose an impossible quest, a fruitful journey toward a hopeful truth that turns out to be a mirage concealing the hard ass cold truth - nothing Is, nothing Isn't. Everything is nothing and so nothing matters and there's not a damn thing anyone or anything can do about it. No philosophy, no lie, no truth, no blindness or sight or mathematical equation or blind faith or escapism or facing of fear - nothing will ever save you from the very truth that is Nothing. Yet even it does not exist. Nothing is inevitable, yet simultaneously it is a contradiction to the truth that fucks itself over indefinitely, eternally. Yet all this happens now. You feel nothing, you do nothing, you are nothing, you mean nothing. And where does nothing always take you? Nowhere. Ah, that wondrous abode of nothing that doesn't actually exist because nothing doesn't exist either. The land of contradictory double-negatives and possible impossible possible impossibilities that just might not be able to not happen when they do. Does your brain hurt? My brains hurts. And if your brain hurts or my brain hurts or maybe just my brain hurts maybe it doesn't matter - it is nothing, you know. You're nothing, your all nothing. And even if you are something I am nothing, I am more in tune with nothing, closer to nothing. I have a relationship with nothing, because I am oh so very much in tune with it, and it takes me on the path to it's abode I call Nowhere. Or maybe... oh gosh, or maybe...

Maybe I really am something. Indeed, oh gasp.

There was a man named Joe who one day became a country. That's right, Joe and anything within 10 feet of him was considered to belong to his country. Joe did this by declaring himself a sovereign state. He made up forms and granted himself citizenship. The law was that what he said goes, and why not since he was the only permanent citizen. Then Joe took it one step further, asking to make trade and defense agreements with the United States. The United States was at a loss of words, not knowing what to do on this unprecedented occasion. Some argued that what Joe had done was unlawful, that he had broken from the Union and must be reclaimed. Joe argued, "What part of the country, have I taken?" When the ten feet around him was pointed out, Joe moved away, saying "here you can have it back, I have returned that property to the Union. After much argument it was seen that having Joe, and the ten foot area around him becoming its own country could be highly beneficial. The nation's criminal problems could be solved by having Joe walk into a jail and killing people one by one who were within 10 feet of him. The Congress liked the idea so much of having a virtual puppet government, in which they could do their dirty work that they gave Joe a whole square mile in Montana to call his own.

Soon, Joe country became the most lawful and lawless country in the world, and Joe became extremely rich. In Joe country it was legal to buy sell and use drugs, but it was illegal to grow, or export them. People could kill one another in Joe country, but only if no weapon was used, and it was a formal, publicly held fight to the death. Many countries also hired Joe to do their killing work, but no one wanted to kill Joe, because if they did, they would have the whole world that used Joe to answer to. All of Joe's operations were done at a highly taxed price, or for some other fee, and Joe soon became extremely rich, and he also grew to control many sub Joe countries throughout the world. Before long Joe was recognized as the most powerful, and eligible man in the world.

Many women came to see Joe looking for his favor, and a number of them found it. Joe became the richest, most powerful, land holder, in the world, with the largest harem imaginable to man. But even with all of this something was missing in Joe's life. All the killings he did, all the criminal acts that he bypassed did not bring enough satisfaction to his life.

Joe decided that he could not be happy until he was dead, so he took a gun to an engraver, and had "MY INHERITOR" printed on the hilt. Then returning to his home Joe took the gun and killed everyone within sight. Once everyone was gone or dead Joe took the gun to his own head, leaving the world to his killer.

Do you remember the toilet?

The one that sat by the edge of the road?

I haven't eaten or slept for I don't know how many days. Don't my sufferings mean anything to him? I'm so far gone I think I might be delusional. All I see anywhere I look is his face. I try to eat but when I look at the plate all I see is his face laughing at me for being so pathetic. All I see is his body and his face.

His old words buzz around my head, "I love you Veitia, I'll love you forever." Where is your love now my Solomon, all I feel is an emptiness. It is an emptiness which used to be filled by you, but is gone now. I don't know if I can live without your love to keep me whole. I don't know if I could bare it if you gave the love you promised to me to somebody else.

Your little smiles and the way you used to touch my body are still imprinted on my mind. How is it that I have been erased from your mind? Or even worse is it possible that you might now find me repulsive? You told me you loved me, and said that I was the one for you. Where have your words gone? Answer my questions, at least give me that satisfaction, so that I might go on with my life.

Pilate tells me that I should forget you. She says that any man who would treat me this way and leave me is not worth it. But Pilate doesn't know you, my Solomon. You are worth the world to me, and I would gladly give you anything. I would suffer and die for you Solomon, if you would only tell me that you loved me. Let the world laugh at me, it doesn't matter, if it could win your love back to me.

Will you come back? Or will you leave me to wither away thinking of you, while you are happy with some other woman. The thought of you being with someone else is something that I simply cannot bear. I will not allow another woman to be with you. You will die before I'll let that happen. If you won't be mine you will not be anyone else's either. As you have made my heart bleed, as you tore away your love, your heart will bleed too. My tears will not dry up on my face. Instead they'll soak into your dead body.

You. You, the one I love. I realize I am not delusional. Your death is the only option left for me. You have cut me out of your life, now I must do the same to you. I will have your life one way or another. You don't think I have it in me to kill you? I think you're wrong. I'll cut a hole of emptiness in you like the one that you cut in me. I'll do it with love my dear. Just because I must kill you does not change that I am still willing to die for you. It's not my fault that you broke your promises, that you flew into hiding, that you won't come and make love to me anymore. It's not my fault that I must now come and hunt you down, and stalk you till I kill you. It's your fault my love, if you would only come back to me all of this could go away.

I know you don't think I could kill you, or probably even find you. But you don't know just how strong my love is. I will track you down and find you. I will see you again one more time, even if it will be the last time I ever see you, even if I must kill you to do it. To hear your voice again instead of these echoes which have overtaken my life, yes I would kill for that. To see your movements, your walk, other than just in some object that my mind creates, yes I would kill for that.

If only I knew there was some hope you would come back to me, if only I knew that you would not be looking to be with another woman, if only I had never met you, if only... All it would take is an "I'm sorry" or a "let's start over", but it can't. You have made up your mind, and now I have made up mine. I will stalk you my love. If I can't eat or sleep, you won't get the chance either. You took away my life, and now I will take it back. Pilate has a good knife, your death will be quick. Enough of this deluded, hazy thinking and writing. We will be together one way or another soon enough.

This is taken from a slightly altered English assignment on the book Song of Solomon. It is an entry in Veitia's journal, while she was in the process of deciding what to do about her lost love with Solomon. She feels sad, empty, reminiscent, and angry, but she still loves Solomon. Her primary motive changes from how do I get him back, to if I can't have him no one will. The change from referring to Solomon as "he" to "you", is not a mistake, but an indication of her mounting delusion, and focus on her goals.

I pounce from my cave, full of clay and ready to jump on my snarling horse, ready to fight.

Oh.

I have no horse. Damn. And no maiden to rescue. At least, I don't think so. Where did that funky idea come from to begin with? Why am I suddenly so disillusioned, disoriented, seeing little monsters leaping from the desert stones and exiled skeletons of this vast wasteland? I know I must go into town, yet I know not where it is. I know not why I know I must do it. I not know why I talk like this. I know not jack shit.

The dumb killer pink elephants have come to take me away, ravish in stomping me to pieces. They were as tall as, uh, well, they were pretty flippin' big. They were all pink and had no eyes and had a tiny blue butt. They passed gas as they waddled from side to side, their stubby hands up at their neck. I ran, ran like I never had, not that I really knew that I had never ran like this, since I didn't remember a gald dern thing. I saw something. A donkey? A horse? Yes! Yes, it was a horse, big and black, and he had a saddle and

reigns and those little thingies where you put your feet in and a canteen. It even had a whip and a hat. And it was parked outside another cave. Never mind for small details, I lashed and the ground and forced my self up, flapped the reigns and yelled, "Yeaarah!" I simply had a gigantic wedgie, I had no idea the animal would begin to take off at high speed, and when I tried to slow down I found there were no brakes. Why no brakes? Never mind the small details. You were moving, I quickly told myself, ride on. Ride on, with the

wind in your long, weird hair. Ah, what is this? I'm wearing a trench coat, I have a gun, I have a hat? Am I flourishing in the great western frontier?

I began to doubt my reality, thinking momentarily that I was in an odd dream, and maybe I wasn't who I thought I was, which I hadn't determined what I was yet anyhow. Maybe I was a pregnant lady who had eaten too much onion-pickle-pudding treats, maybe I was a kid who'd fallen sleep reading a comic book, maybe I was in a coma in a hospital, maybe I was near death, dying, clinging to life, and people were begging for me to survive, to pull through, and to turn away from the light, and I went on, in my own fantasy, ignoring my fears and not facing them, ignoring my pain, ignoring what lies beyond, ignoring all. To tell the truth, I didn't care, I didn't want to know at that moment, and all I really want to do now is

wake up and go to the bathroom.

Aye curumba, I just realized I don't now know who I am or why, nor do I feel the need I ask, which I shall do simply for the hell of doing it. Why am I here? Why am I there? Why am I? Where? Who and when? How long and to what extent? All these questions plague me, though I push them off to the side to deal with them later, maybe never, who cares?

Not I, not me!

I see only what I want to, see?

My question to be or not to be

Can be suppressed by me to me successfully

Why, it is my mind! Screw you all! I am I!

I'll not brush my hair, wear a hat, unbutton my fly!

So I'm not the fad, I'm not a dumb guy!

I think, and I suppress, I truth, forget and lie!

I could be in a dream, or real life and not know it!

I could be a murderer, FBI, a psychologist, uh...

Poet?

Where was I? What had happened just there? Pay it no mind, Slunter? Uh, Splinter? Spitter? Spoogey? Sponge-Nose? UH, what is thy name? Is they in thy castle in, uh, Rome? Or am I... uh, damn.

The horse is gone.

The sunny desert is gone.

I am now in a dark and ruling place, I am a predatory bird that walks like a man in a robe in a place like Egypt. I drive in a motorcycle, in an apocalyptic future. The sky is cloudy and vast, as is this land of, uh, where am I? I am not here, nor there, ah, yes! Must be Elsewhere!

Thirst and hunger, love a death

I cry for sanity in my ever gasping breath

I cry for a soda, I yearn for some cider

I plead to not fall dead or get eaten by, uh....

Spider! A gigantic spider, the legs looked like trees

My millage goes up, I run and crack, uh, thy knees

I run and I dart, so swiftly I glide

Unfathomable, untrue, from the truth cannot hide

Am I making progress? Am I making much sense?

My body has grown weak, my mind, has grown dense

All roses die, new flowers? they must bloom

Philosophy of the future, aside, uh...

Damn. I gotta go to the bathroom. Is there a bathroom around here? Oh great, what am I now? Ah, yes, I am a top secret agent. Where am I now? I am in a secret closed room, staring down at an open file in my hands. I am devastated to know what the truth really is, that the government has been lying to us,

that they have controlled our minds through mass manipulation, turning out physical eyes from the truth, and where our biological eyes won't go along with it. No past lives, no other life beyond here, no abductions by odd entities, no nuttin.' All mass hysteria, all lies, government knows all, just wants to be our friends, ruled by the people for the people. Bullshit.

The door opens. Things are said. They shoot me. I die.

I'm back riding the horse. But where was I just now? I am a scavenger, a ruler, a protector. I aid the innocent and kill those manipulative and vile and mean and stupid and stuff.

Escaping the jaws of the deadly pink elephant on two feet, I enter the town of Arrowsville and stop at a nearby saloon. I stroll in the doors, looking in. They all peer back at me.

They fall to the ground. "Please, please Wylie Drago, don't hurt us! Spare our lives, we will aid you, do as you please, what do you want? Anything gold, leather, oddities?"

I shrug. "Got any Ritz?"

"Strong, muscle bound imp." Says a pretty lady sitting next to a smelly man with cigar-breath. "You're not wanted here. Go away. Go home, you selfish chicken turd."

I sniffed. "Uh, who's she?" I asked a short guy. He looked up at me, disgruntled.

"Your wife!"

"Yes, his wife!" She said, waving her arms up in the air.

Perplexed. Disgusted with my memory. "Uh, yeah. Right. Sure. She's my wife. My names Wylard snot?"

"Wylie Drago." He said to me. Short man. I felt like squishing him. He was an annoying short man.

"You don't know your own name? How can he not know his own name?"

An insomniac. Bad hair. Really short man.

"What a looser. Mister Drago, Mister Drago, I have tried to relay to you all information you need, all that is necessary, but do you listen? No! Then you forget that which you have already obtained!"

An annoying, fart-brained pimple of a short man.

Splat! goes his head as I slam it into the table. She pulls out a gun, and points it at me. "Selfish heartless bastard."

She cocks it and fires, and my eyes light up. "OH DAMN."

I duck, and the bullet misses me, and I hit a table. I screw up. I screw up big time. I try to run, but I fall over the short man, and into a table. She shoots. Everybody shoots. People automatically start punching people. Grouped evil emotions in action. Interesting.

I jumped behind a counter for cover, tripped on some liquor, hit my head and just lay there with my eyes closed. Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn I am so sick of screwing up. I am such a loser, such a screw up. I am so sick of myself, I come out of my cave thinking it'll all be alright and here they go being themselves and I managed to screw up screw up screw up damn damn damn damn damn damn dammit, I suck.

"Drago?"

"WHAT!"

I open my eyes to see a beautiful blond-haired woman named Holly. She was in a tight black full body uniform, turtle neck and looking quite sexy. Did I know her?

She grabs me and pulls me close. Uh, oh yes. "You idiot! Watch your back, they're looking for you. They don't want you to dump their secrets. Meet met me at the x." She dropped me and my face fell to the floor. Oh no.

I got up. Everyone was either shot and moaning, dead, asleep from boredom, or had left. A bartender popped up out of nowhere. "Heyyeah, yar, wanta drenk?"

"Uh, sure."

He poured me a glass, and I lifted it to me lips. I hoped it was Pepsi. I had to ask him if he had some Ritz. The door flings open and an old man hit me in the back. I spit out the drink and fell to the floor.

Gasping for breath and full of blood, the man grabbed my shirt and pulled me up close. "Pah-pah-pah-lease, ehk, find my son and give him this letter." He said, and pushed a manila envelop in my face. I took it. The man fell to the floor. "Whoa. Where's your son."

"Yah-puh-puh-puh," he began, then said before he finally died away, "Check return address."

"Uh, oh."

"Bye."

"Um, yeah. See ya."

Flump.