wow, these rat bastards.

[Mister Pink]

dear god, the animals have taken to the streets and began to multiply. I come back to headquarters and find the whole godamned place has turned into a circus. "such hideous violence" I thought to myself. auras, paranoia, surround the whole  of my head and I recall sensing it was the time for action. It was sometime after midnight on november the fifteenth, and we went out to work on a massive fireworks display that we were planning to explode in the morning to scare the snot out of the neighbors. They know me as a gentle, fun-loving boy with a goofy sense of timing, but they would never in their darkest dreams expect to be blasted out of bed before sunrise for no good reason at all. Only a vicious imbecile would do a thing like that, and they knew I was not an imbecile.
It was the late janitor, who turned me into a bomb junkie, and I have never forgiven him for it. He was a genuine swine whenever explosions were mentioned. he never saw a fuse that he didn't want to set on fire, regardless of where he was in the world or who might be standing nearby. He lovedexplosions and he didn't mind admitting it. On the other hand, that went out with those creepy bamboo cages they used to have in Calcutta, where blonde slave-girls were auctioned off to savage Asian bandits, and never seen again.
Ah, but we stray into Racism, eh? But not really. No. It is just another way of wondering out loud how I came to be at the same school as some of these rat fucks. Ah, we should be ashamed of ourselves. And I am. Sorry, we got stupid for a minute. It won't happen again.
What I'm really thankful for is complete and utter the failure of John Kerry's bid for the presidency. that and those microwaveable burritos, but that will come in time. It happened a second time, for this I am sorry.
Jesus babbling Christ!
thats where we were, it was the worst single event in the history of the state of maine, including Pearl Harbor, the San Francisco earthquake and probably the Battle of Antietam in 1862, when 23,000 were slaughtered in one day.
Many things have happened since last week -- many weird things, radical things, savage 180-degree swings between totally opposite poles like Joy and fear, wild passions and violent rages, sudden love and sudden hate. ... I have known them all, and I fear I have come to like them too much. I am an Addictive Personality, they say, a natural slave to passion -- and many Doctors have warned me against it. I am a High-risk Patient. But not all of those doctors are still alive today. Two committed suicide, and two others had their Medical licenses lifted for abusing Hospital drugs. Another misdiagnosed his own wife's Cancer case and was forced to retire from Medicine. After that, he went into the psychiatric business and destroyed the mental health of a whole family by convincing all of them, one at a time, that they were fatally Dysfunctional and probably Insane. Their only hope, he said, was to have each other committed to long-term, fearfully Harsh and impossibly Expensive private Insane Asylums. ... The children got the most painful sentences. One spent two years in the lockdown ward of the Menninger Clinic in Kansas; another was put in a straitjacket and turned over to the notoriously cruel Cocaine Addict Wing at Jackson Memorial Hospital in Kansas city, which is not in Kansas proper, where "Isolation Therapy" is mandatory for the first nine months. Justice is expensive in America. There are no Free Passes. ... You might want to remember this, the next time you get careless and blow off a few Parking Tickets. They will come back to haunt you the next time you see a Cop car in your rear-view mirror. Or if you notice your teenage daughter hanging out with a rotten-looking Skinhead. ... There is no such thing as Paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment. ... What happened to Lisl Auman can happen to Anybody in America, and when it does, you will sure as hell need Friends. ... Take my word for it, folks. I have Been There, and it ain't Fun.

[Anonymous]

Dude,did you get to set your bomb off or what?

[Mister Pink]

What? Meet me? At the Illinois State Prison? Am I having an acid flashback? Who is this woman? Is my phone cutting out again? Who else is on my line that I don't know about? The police? John Ashcroft? Kobe Bryant? J. Edgar Hoover? Is this really the end? Where is Bob Dylan when I need him tonight?

[Mister Pink]

Must've been an illiterate contestant from a game show. I have been assured by several friends that there is no need for concern, and the ranting will be over any second. The whole affair quickly degraded into a shouting match after the bomb in the mailbox failed to detonate because of poorly manufactured fuses. I was forced to wait several minutes and then take charge of the situation myself. Common sense would have advised against using firearms to ignite the gunpowder, but I am a man of uncommon ideas. My life partner, god bless her soul, arrived on the scene at just the right moment. taking aim, she leveled the shotgun towards their garbage can and took several wild shots. Of course, my neighbor, and unruly gentleman of corresponding temperment was woken by these goings on and came in my direction. The situation was a bad one, the time had obviosuly come to be gone, along with his garbage can, the contents of which included nothing except fifty pounds of seeds and stems and a broken bong. My neighbor had smashed the bong and then backed over it with his pickup truck after he found his wife sleeping with the janitor. This simple confrontation speaks next to nothing about the real nature of his unruliness, to be honest, I had half expected to find the janitor's severed head beneath these piles of marijuana rinds and bong glass. Lucky for everyone involved, this was not the case, blood soaked paraphenilia are useless for making the kind of hashish that only high schoolers will buy. i could've gone anywhere in the world right now, the federal zoo included, but had to decline because of their recent installment of FACIAL RECOGNITION SOFTWARE. scary idea when you sit and think about it, and i couldn't risk another encounter with nazi military authority, at least not on this morning. Right, and let's take a break from this grim business for a moment. It is driving me to drink.

After a three hour debacle the pope unwittingly declared a continuation of the ninth crusade. Whoops again! Hold the presses; things have changed. bizzaire gibberish and reports of mass panic that is too hot for television, I've been told. And so much for that, eh? Who needs public lewdness in a time of fear and depression like this? Not me, bubba. I'll stick to the great all-American pastimes of bombs and baseball. but going into these winter months will be hard indeed. you see, baseballs freeze up in the winter, so they can't bounce normally. ... I know this from horrible experience: I once walked 22 consecutive batters on a chilly night in Taylorsville, Ky.

But that is another story, and we will save it for later -- maybe for some warm summer night when bands are playing, and children shout, and perverts work the bathrooms under the bleachers. You bet.

[Anonymous]

that was fukin awesome

[Mister Pink]

We knew him as "Mister White" in those days, and we knew that he did some kind of extremely important work that may or may not have had something to do with traveling to kentucky. But we never quite knew what it was -- and because of that, we were vaguely afraid of him. Today his poor ass is sitting in Fort Leavenworth for a several turns of this planet around the glowing disc known as the sun, something having to do with a moslem and a device known as a 'LAW'. All I know is i'm not flying for a while yet, not after they got rid of peanuts... and Pan-Am for that matter.
I was brooding on this last night, when the phone rang and jerked me back to reality. It was Sarah, calling with a frog in her throat. I could barely hear her voice.
"Speak up!" I said sharply. "I thought I told you never to call me on a cell phone. You sound like some kind of Eskimo whore"
"Sorry," she whispered. "I'll call you back on a land line." Then I thought I heard her laugh, just before the phone went dead again.
"Are you drunk?" I asked when she called back.
"No," she replied. "I am high on life."
I hung up the phone and walked outside. I was in no mood for this tonight. I needed to clear my head, go watch Al Jazeera or something. The pictures on the television looked like a Hells Angels riot at the infamous Altamont rock festival. the first wild days of our latest battle against Moslems in Iraq, where our finely-trained U.S. combat troops are filling the streets of Fallujah with the infidels blood and America won't even show it to us. Whatever happened to newsreels god damn it? so what? Violence and brutality are no strangers here. We have known both for many years; and on some days, I almost enjoy them -- if only because I am a fourth-generation American, and that is the way I was raised. I own property and I frequently shoot sporting guns, just for the practice... Right. And never forget that, bubba, etc. etc. That is the kind of macho gunslinger talk that you hear in any sporting room where hard-bitten gamblers habitually gather to watch major sporting events.

[Mister Pink]

Ah, yes, but all of this has little to do with the realities at hand, despite the best-laid plans of Mister White, the cold war did not continues into the year of our lord, 2002. Nor did it end in the nuclear holocaust he had envisioned. Not unlike the Book of Revelation, now that you mention it. When Hell erupts out of the earth and the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse ride everywhere, everywhere, with permanent flood-tides of blood and filth and murder that will destroy our lives forever-- Right, and so much for that, eh? You bet, so i'll lighten up with the preaching and at least try get to the heart of the matter. all great things happen during the nighttime -unless you behave like a fool and choose to sleep through it. trust me,
nobody hates sleep-deprivation worse than I do, but on some days, I am forced to tolerate it, for reasons that come with the territory. We are, after all, professionals. It is better to win than to lose. That is the law of nature. It was on such a night my life partner and I paid a visit to my neighbor. We found it not an easy task; a neo-industrial compound several miles in length and width technically seperated our properties, which in addition to non-filing explains my incredibly low tax rate. Onward we pressed. The very foolish janitor once told me the straightest path between two points is a straight line. The bastard never climbed a barbed wire fence or inhaled fumes that turned your vision from simple dilation into a kaleidiscope of shattered glass. No sir, these were not simple boiler room fumes, "Something utterly evil" I remember thinking before my thoughts spiraled into madness. Neither of us remembered how long we were in that state, we just didn't seem to care, really. The point is I still possesed the dexterity to send up my own homemade fireworks over my neighbors house, showering the top with sparks and wonderful explosions of color. No harm done, I can assure you, and friends have assured me that this is not a crime unless he has bought the airspace above the home. but that likely belongs to the industrialists nextdoor just in case we decide to get sassy and fire up a lawsuit about dangerous fumes in the air and drinking water.

Among the many strange movies in the White House top-secret film library is a genuinely-wretched Hollywood classic titled "Squaw Man," which I happened to be watching last night when a wild-eyed gentleman burst into the house and screamed, "How do you like me now? You honky pimp!
It was our old neighbor Omar, who still owes me $90,000 from a previous gambling disaster, which ended tragically in a long-ago bet involving his little sister and the New York Yankees and a rash of White Slavery accusations against me and my life partner and everything we stand for. So the sudden appearance of Omar after all this time was not an entirely comfortable thing to see.
my partner seemed to feel the same way, saying nothing as she hurried out of the room and left me alone with the brute.
He wasted no time in small talk.

"Where is the Princess?" he whispered harshly. "I have the money now, and I have come to get my sister. Where is she? I want her now."

His words were fuzzy and slurred. I could see that he was about to lose consciousness, so I smiled calmly and offered him a pack of whiskey-soaked Camel cigarettes.

"What's your hurry?" I said. "We have all the time in the world, don't we? How about a snort of Absinthe. I have some wonderful stuff that Col. Mirab just brought back from Turkey."

I reached for the bar near the fire and abruptly started laughing at him.

"The bitch is gone," I said. "She is gone where you will never find her."

Then his voice trailed off in a cackling noise that I remember so clearly from my days as a youth, when we first watched Old Will from up the street beginning to tear the head off a live squawking chicken as he slid to his knees and passed out...
Of course. Why not? It happens all the time.

[Mister Pink]

And so on and so forth. My plans for a relaxing evening were again betrayed. You see, I was delayed on route when a mustang cobra in front of me struck and killed a pedestrian. The military had just finished mopping the blood off of the road when I arrived on scene, but the body was still splayed in the middle of the intersection. I slipped the lieutenant a twenty dollar bill and he eyed me with guarded suspicion. "No civilians allowed" he said and clicked the safety off of his AK. this was not a time for another confrontation, so I did the only thing a man in my situation can do, I ran to the nearest payphone and called in the heavy artillerey. I would stay longer, but the stench of the napalm is overbearing. until then my friends and swine.

[Anonymous]

can someone increase this guys meds?

[Mister Pink]

Those of us who had been up all night had no need for medication. No, what we needed was strong drink. Lucky for us all, I knew just the place. However, when we arrived on scene, the doors were closed. "Damn it to hell" I thought
"where am I going to find absinthe now?" True, there was an ounce or two in the bottom of the flask, but a yellow mold had also attached itself to my liquor, and I had no wish to repeat the events of last august, where I vomited for one whole hour on the floor of the auditorium during a Bob Dylan concert. Who can really be sure though, Dylan is getting old, and to be honest, it could have been anyone. I was so swollen with shame and puke that I felt like a Japanese Fugue fish in heat -- and that was when I thought about Seppuku. It was the only honorable way out, so I reached for my gold-handled Samurai sword.
Just then, the telephone rang and I heard the angry voice of my friend Curtis. A chill went through me. He was moaning and jabbering hysterically about his aged mother shooting herself with the heirloom family shotgun.
"She'll be better off dead, anyway," he moaned, "and so will I."
I said nothing about what I was about to do when he called. It seemed like the wrong thing to say at the time, and I didn't want to be blamed for his death.
So I hung up on him and cried for a long time. Then I decided to dress up in a proper costume for the trip ahead while I listened, dreamfully, to Dean Martin croon a teenage love song with the lyrics, "He's got you ... I've got your picture, he's got you."
That is a morbid observation, at best, and we are all stuck with it. Curtis was the owner of a green 1977 Ford Thunderbird from a police auction, the kind with the white leather top and all the buttons and dials associated with any car that comes from the factory without seatbelts. Like riding inside of a giant watermelon with glass windows, that is the heart of my story and  
JESUS RAMBLING CHRIST!!
Who knows why I suddenly changed my mind? Many people will call me a whore and a fool and a traitor for saying these things in public and betraying my own people at a critical time like this -- and they all may be right, but so what?

[Mister Pink]

It is 3:16 in the morning now, and my plane for departs at 8:45 a.m. Or at least that is what my virtual ticket tells me: Come Fly With Us?
Flying to the anywhere has always been a vaguely morbid experience, even for professionals like myself. The trip itself is usually several hours across open water, in a cramped tin airplane with 300 frightened strangers who stare down helplessly at the white-caps of the endless deep-blue ocean. December is an ugly month for getting involved in public travel. It is a desperate season for most people, but not for me this year, because I am turning into a Body Nazi, and I feel pretty good about it. Ho ho ho. Yes sir. Nothing can hurt me for at least 30 days, and by then I will be twice as strong and crazy as I am now.
It happens every year, one way or another, and every year it gets weirder. And wilder and darker and more intense.
Which is pretty damn crazy, on some days, but that is only gossip. "Crazy" is a term of art: "Insane" is a term of Law. Remember that, and you will save yourself a lot of trouble.
The Marquis De Sade was born crazy and he did monumentally crazy things every day of his utterly degenerate life? But he was only insane when he got locked up in jail.
I almost never killed people who crossed me when I was drunk.... That will make for interesting conversations in a courtroom. It is the difference between Guilty and Innocent. Ah, but why are we wandering off into some queasy world of mystery and speculation? Is it Necessary? I mean, Hitler was a monster, a murderous speed freak who wanted to rule the world. He was hated and feared by his own Generals. Everybody hated Hitler. He was too crazy to live -- yet he did rule the world for 12 years and four months, and he got away with it. "Exactly", as Omar would say.
Right. No more of those warm summer days in the centerfield bleachers with no shirt and cold beer and Dolly Parton on the radio. No sir. That was yesterday. Today is a whole different story. Welcome to Generation Z. The fat is in the fire.
I shudder when I think that my grandmother, the beautiful Lucille Lady Ray, grew up in a time before automobiles or radios or even electric light bulbs existed.
That poor woman saw too much, I think -- but that is way beyond what we are talking about. It is sort of like bringing the String Theory of quantum Mechanics into a football conversation.

Forget it.

[Anonymous]

medincine! medicine! this man has a bad heart, angina pectoris!

[Anonymous]

Dude is like some kind of mad scientist or sumptin

[Mister Pink]

Just then I heard the lock on my gas tank rattling, so I rushed outside with a shotgun and fired both barrels into the darkness. Poachers! I thought. Blow their heads off! This is War! So I fired another blast in the general direction of the gas pump, then I went inside to reload.
"Why are you shooting?" my life partner screamed at me. "What are you shooting at?"
"The enemy," I said gruffly. "He is down there stealing our gasoline."
"Nonsense," she said. "That tank has been empty since June. You probably killed a peacock."
At dawn I went down to the tank and found the gas hose shredded by birdshot and two peacocks dead.
So what? I thought. What is more important right now -- my precious gasoline or the lives of some silly birds?
Indeed, but the green Thundrebird broke down yesterday, so I have to get a grip on something solid. The Other Shoe is about to drop, and it might be extremely heavy. The time has come to be strong. The fat is in the fire. Who knows what will happen now?
Not me, buster. That's why I live out here in the mountains with a flag on my porch and loud Wagner music blaring out of my speakers. I feel lucky, and I have plenty of ammunition. That is God's will, they say, and that is also why I shoot into the darkness at anything that moves. Sooner or later, I will hit something Evil, and feel no Guilt. It might be Osama Bin Laden. Who knows? And where is Adolf Hitler, now that we finally need him? It is bad business to go into War without a target.
Generals and military scholars will tell you that eight or 10 years is actually not such a long time in the span of human history -- which is no doubt true -- but history also tells us that 10 years of martial law and a war-time economy are going to feel like a Lifetime to people who are in their twenties today. The poor bastards of what will forever be known as Generation Z are doomed to be the first generation of Americans who will grow up with a lower standard of living than their parents enjoyed.
That is extremely heavy news, and it will take a while for it to sink in. The 22 babies born in New York City while the World Trade Center burned will never know what they missed. The last half of the 20th century will seem like a wild party for rich kids, compared to what's coming now. The party's over, folks. The time has come for loyal Americans to Sacrifice. ... Sacrifice. ... Sacrifice. That is the new buzz-word in Washington. But what it means is not entirely clear...
But I wander off into topics that don't concern us here today.
Counting on others to do anything right is like throwing your money to the winds of fickle chance, something only a common junkie would do -- but there were many junkies, and not all were "common," by any standard. They were big-time people -- U.S. Senators, Presidents, evil pimps and gold-plated whores from mysterious harems in Hong Kong, Turkey and Liechtenstein. The power they wielded in the years after World War II was enormous. They traded in diamonds and rubies and atom bombs. They rarely slept, and their blood was always boiling. Those were wild and lawless years in the Capital District.
Are you as stupid as a chicken on a freeway? Are you a natural fool? Good, I didn't think so, because if you were, I wouldn't hesitate to have you flayed and turned into germ-free hamburgers, with just enough purified animal fat to make you sizzle...
Don't take any guff from these swine...

[Anonymous]

Someone, anyone,who knows this guy, do the world a favor, put a frickin bullet in his head ! better yet, do it yourself mister pink, you fuckin loser whack job !