He, doesn’t want their cage.

the caged wild cat

is quiet

he doesn’t roar, anymore

some lions are born into captivity

while others, are trapped

by their own choices.

There are no males, anymore

only emails

no biological difference, between the sexes

“Hello, how may I help you?”

Women don’t worship men, the way they should, anymore

Men, are not gods

they are courteous, push-overs

The reason why men aren’t gods, is because they don’t act like men

they have no virtues

no will, to do it, on their own

They want to be given, what is freely given

they honestly believe, there is no cost

Modern Men don’t think

they believe, what they are told

their role

is to take-out the trash

to get their food from a grocery store

to say yes, and never to say no

to sit all day, playing fantasy football

boys

can’t respect their fathers, anymore

their fathers have not fought in war

Modern Men don’t believe in anything, but what they are told

They actually believe they are 12 at heart

they need a mother

a woman, who doesn’t need a man

because

a man, is not a man, anymore

Men need a task to do

because they have no life-task.

To stand on two feet, and take it

is better than sitting

down.

I have to hide in plain sight

holding my tongue, like a worm, that wants to eat bullshit

laughing, singing

“Halleluiah! I’m not them!”

There is no easy path,

to the mountains,

holding great mysteries

melting snow, like fog, burning water,

like power, shining through the sun

rushing down rivers

into oceans, free, from the land

where governments, don’t go

where fish, swim in the sea

where pirates live, and monsters dive deep

Faith, sets a man Free

his quiet life is loud

he courts attention without wanting it

Women want him,

but they have been taught

to be something else

and he,

doesn’t want their cage.

Judy

rain drops, are wet

a happy, or a sad, splash, on our shoulders

while flowers, are only beautiful for an hour

opening-up, like umbrellas in the rain

singing in pain

under the rainbow

her song, traveling

forever.

Chapter 5 Double D Standards and Plastic Surgery

Gregson followed Murphy to the mess-hall. There was something sinister about the perfectly manicured lawn. Nobody cuts grass that cleanly—not even a Slavic family living in southern suburbia. Red brick buildings popped out of the grass, like eye soars—blood shot, infected with moss, like they belonged in a different century.

“This place looks like a mental institution for the criminally insane,” Gregson observed.

A crowd of girls moved through them like a flock of seagals, screaming for their testosterone.

“I need to commit a crime,” Gregson said. “I’ve been on the wrong side of the law. Can a man voluntarily be committed?”

“It’s not worth it. After sex, a man is drained of his manhood—too much, will turn him into a little boy.”

“Who cares.”

Murphy and Gregson walked into the mess-hall. Guards were eating island pizza, with pepperoni and black olives. There were root beer floats, and beer floats. Fat bellies, everywhere. A tossed salad was untouched on the table—symbolic—it said, anybody fat, can reach for a healthy snack, and save themselves. On the walls, were posters of war heroes, saving supermodels on the beaches of foreign soil. Women wearing bright dresses—peach, lime green, and blue. The occasional pants-suit, but not a Hillary Clinton look, more like a progressive sexy secretary.

“Something is wrong here,” Gregson said.

“Or perhaps, this place is so right, it feels wrong,” Murphy suggested.

“No. That’s not it. This room is screaming at me.”

“You sound insane.”

“Look—the women are eating different kinds of grass, and the men are eating pizza. Don’t you see the social messaging?”

“Of course.”

Then, a bell rang.

Gregson was half-way through a slice of pizza when a voice spoke. It was manly. Deep. Rich. Full of testosterone and vitality.

“I know you are concerned about the missing women. Trust me—we will find them. It’s an island. I have spoken with their fathers and soon-to-be husbands. There is an ample reward offered, if you know of their where-abouts. Senator McCleary is offering a full-package spa, and plastic surgery option to any woman who wants to increase the size of her chest. So, don’t hesitate to let me know. Dr. Boob, oh—I’m sorry—Dr. Bob is one of the best. He can also rejuvenate other areas. He promises an after-child option, with one stipulation. You must have a minimum of six kids, and then, he will make you, like you are 18 again. Think about the bowling ball, stretching, for hours… Not a pretty sight. Your husbands should wait in the waiting room. It’s a violation of their happy place. Okay. Are there any questions?”

A blonde in the front row, raised her hand. “What kind of Doctor are you? Can you perform surgery on me?” She giggled.

“I’m afraid, I cannot. I am a Doctor of Philosophy. But if you would like me to fertilize your mind, I can open up 30 minutes in my schedule. You will have to make an appointment with my secretary’s secretary’s secretary, and then I can get you in.”

There was a deep intake of breath, from the girls in the audience.

Gregson was trying to size-up the governor. Obviously, he was in command—a superman. The PI waved his hand. “Can I talk to you, sir?”

“Of course, you can. You must be the hired help to find the missing women? Let me know if my staff, or I, can be of any assistance to you.”

“Yes—you can. Is there a place we can talk?”

“My quarters, in 25 minutes. I will have my chauffer drive you to my mansion. Enjoy the pizza—it’s the best in the world.”

Gregson, didn’t think it wise to argue. He was a connoisseur of pizza, and knew several places that were better. The PI watched the governor leave. He wore a Scottish kilt, with green socks, and a purple waistcoat. He had a soldierly appearance. The creases on his forehead betrayed the battles he had seen.

“An interesting man,” Gregson mused. “Very rare.”

“Let me know what you find-out,” Murphy said. “I’m going to relieve my stress.” He walked to the pool, and to the fake sand dunes, where blondes, brunettes, and red-heads were sunning themselves under artificial lights. They were all wearing suits—birthday suits. Clothes were as foreign to them as the New World was to Columbus, when he discovered her, untouched, by the white man.

Gregson felt a tug, at the back of his Hawaiian shirt. It was a woman—very short—her head came to his waist.

“The governor wishes to see you. Follow me.”

Gregson followed her. There was something oddly attractive about her tiny legs. She wore low-cut, olive green, military shorts. Gregson loved, a tiny woman who could take command. She was all business.

“The governor is very precise about his schedule,” she said. She caught him staring at her legs. Then she smiled, through her commanding lips. “But we can take a detour, if you like?”

“I like,” Gregson said.

“Don’t worry, we will be on time.”

When they got to the mansion, Gregson got out, and she waved to him, like an Asian holiday.

Gregson staggered up the steps. The mansion was Greek-modern. Ugly. “If you have money, it only magnifies bad taste,” Gregson muttered.

He was about to knock, when the governor opened the door. “Welcome to my humble home,” he said. There was nothing humble about it. Portrait after portrait of him in masterful poses. Lines of golden books on the shelves of his deep red room, with Persian carpets, and a Steinway piano tucked in the corner.

The governor walked up the steel spiral staircase, leading to his third-floor study. Gregson followed him, looking up, seeing the biggest pair of testicles he had ever seen. Bigger than those in the shower rooms of America, larger than life, like tennis balls carefully preserved in their air-locked tube. Of course, the average American male is not a high standard. And European—is well—European.  Siberia is the last stronghold. Nobody wants to go there, and that’s where masculinity is cultivated.

Chapter 4 The Island of Lost Women

Gregson surveyed the island. There was a lighthouse on the far end, with several brick dormitories nearby. Volleyball, badminton, and croquet were happening on the front lawn. The girls looked like sorority airheads. Gregson didn’t mind—he was just trying to size-up what he was dealing with.

“It’s almost like the playboy mansion, without Hugh Hefner,” Gregson observed. “Where should we check-in?”

“I’ve been sleeping in the guard’s barracks. The rest of the island is woods, and cliffs. Nobody goes there, but we can take a jeep, if we need to.”

“Perhaps, the girls are on scholarship?” Gregson said.

“But what are they studying?” Murphy asked. “They play games most of the day. When a new one arrives, she sleeps for a week. Maybe the governor knows. Seasick, probably.”

“But all of them? They might be drugged. When is the governor available?”

“He keeps to himself. Periodically, women are taken-off the island, and he signs their release. I rarely see him. Stephon picks-up the girls, and drops them off. Nobody gets on or off this island without him.”

“What’s the weather like?” Gregson asked.

“Mostly sunny, with an occasional hurricane. Your suitcases arrived before you did. Air drop, I think. Let’s get you situated in the barracks and enjoy some lunch.”

The brick building gave Gregson the willies. There were bars on the windows. It was the kind of place one could never get used to, even if you knew every inch of brick. It felt like the person at work you’ve known for 20 years—you catch bits and pieces of their conversation, but they’re still a stranger, stranger still, because you have known them, without knowing them. Whoever belongs to this island, doesn’t belong anywhere else, Gregson thought.

“What do they call this place?” He asked.

“The Island of Lost Women,” Murphy said.

“You’re joking.”

The Writing Bum

I am always writing about myself. I need new material. Where can I find a good story?

The newspaper? No—it has been saying the same thing for the last 20 years—and that’s about as long as I’ve been reading the newspaper. If you think it has anything to say, you are imagining it. Movies and TV shows hype the old reporters, uncovering a scandalous story that will pull the curtain on power, and change society forever, but nothing ever changes. Those in power, remain in power, because they understand power. If you can’t get into the game, you won’t learn how to play. And if you do, it’s like a high school kid in PE, stepping into the ring with a heavyweight champion who is deaf in both ears from taking several hits over a long career. He won’t hear the bell, and you’ll be dead. The obituaries are the only page worth reading anymore. A life summed up in 250 words. Graduated with honors, got married, became an engineer, had three kids, had nine grand-kids, died from drinking, was married 60 years.

I am searching for something real. Even though I cringe, when I say it—I tell people I’m a writer.

“Have you been published?” They inevitably ask.

“No—but I’ve been getting favorable rejections.”

They look at me with pity in their eyes, like I have mental problems.

“No really! The last letter said, ‘we really enjoyed your story, but it’s not a good fit for our magazine.'”

“Maybe, you should stop writing? I know several people who tried to get published, and they got the same letter.”

“Do you have any stories?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, most people have a story that needs to be told. I want to tell it.”

“Okay. But you give me 50 percent, if it gets published.”

“Sure!”

I don’t tell them, I promised God, I would give Him all of my money from writing, if he would only bless me. He hasn’t yet, but I still have faith.

My father told me, “That’s an abomination! Asking God for success!? God doesn’t want your money!”

Give a writer enough time, and desperation sinks in. Desperation is the seed of inspiration! I always say.

I creeped-out the barista at Starbucks, when I asked her if she had any good stories. I could tell, she was thinking about calling 911—which would make a good story.

“Officer, I swear, I wasn’t hitting on her—I just wanted to rape her mind.”

It sounds awful when I say it, but it’s a dream I had. Am I really responsible for my own dreams? If I’m thinking these thoughts, in my subconscious mind, am I being honest in public? Probably not.

The golf course is the last bastion of hope for good ideas. I paired up with a guy in his late 70s. His clubs were at least 40 years old. I like playing with these types of golfers. They’re trapped in time, like a good story—a story kept on ice. Even if it goes bad, it’s even better. Memories fade, and the imagination takes over. Men over 70 are notorious for catching fish the size of small whales, and many of them are desperate for someone to talk to, someone who will listen, someone with 94 percent recall, who asks them follow-up questions.

“What do you do?” He asked me.

“I write,” I said.

“You look more like a teacher, and you talk like one too.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes. You remind me of my 9th grade English teacher who wrote science fiction stories in his spare time, and read them to our class. We stopped reading after that—and my buddies and I went into Vietnam. It was less traumatic than English class, probably because they let us drink beer, and shoot Charlie. In school, there was no aggressive outlet. We just had to hope our teacher would die of a heart attack.”

“Hey, that would make a good story,” I said. “Care to elaborate?”

My Fear of Women and Western Society

Can we trust our fear—

especially, when it seems logical?

As soon as you are labeled by society, anything you say, is suspect

It’s the insane asylum—where doctors are right, and patients are crazy

involuntarily committed, some, are lobotomized, to make docile, and easier to control

some, are convinced they are crazy, and need reeducation therapy

Being violent and right, might be better than being docile and wrong

Who has the right to tell me I am wrong?

Society?

How do they decide?

In our present-day society, there is a fear of being labeled

Racist

Sexist

Homophobic

This fear is wielded by those who claim to be living in fear

to fight fear with fear, is the way of society

Doctors are always right, because they are doctors

the insane are always wrong, because they are insane

The same is true, for those who feel fear

in my present job, a male administrator is not allowed to correct a female teacher

because of an unspoken rule

it is danced around, like, “I wanted to be superman, but suddenly, I couldn’t solve every problem. That’s when I called our female administrator.”

He wants to say the right thing, so he is socially correct, but he is so very wrong.

Perhaps, he is worried that a woman under suspicion, might say “anything” that would make the problem larger.

This is true

Women are believed, and men are thought to be guilty, until proven innocent.

It’s dangerous to be a man, confronting a cornered woman.

Society holds its courts of opinion, silently, or not so silently

Men instruct men, on the standards

I went to dinner with some friends, and I mentioned that testosterone makes a man, a man, and nothing else.

“Oh—you can’t say that,” my friend’s fiancé, told me.

I went on… “People have been socialized to believe that social norms are created by society, but they spring from the well of biological roots.”

“That’s not true,” he said. “Men are leaders because they have oppressed women.”

This makes no sense to me.

He continued, “To say otherwise, is to be misogynistic.”

The label.

Once you are labeled, anything you say, is insane.

“It doesn’t really matter,” I said. “Knowledge should be kept to oneself.”

“That’s speaking like an engineer,” he said.

He had read a book, and believed what it said. He screened all information, based on his new belief. He disagreed with me, and told me I was wrong.

There is only one type of person more dangerous than an ignorant one—an ignorant one who reads books.

What I meant was, a man of high testosterone will immediately be recognized as a leader, especially by women.

He will be judged to be the most competent, and females will defer to his authority, even when they know more than he does

and especially when other men of less testosterone, know more than he does

this is why software engineers, or intelligent types, do not become leaders

their intelligence, is too difficult to understand.

Humans trust testosterone, which affects tone of voice, body posture, scent, and eye contact. We read body language, and not theoretical abstracts.

When women defer to a man, they signal his status, which makes him appear to be a leader.

He is highly desirable, because, women have selected him.

At dinner, my friend’s fiancé suggested the following, “I am about to be married, and you don’t have a girlfriend.”

Because he has been selected by a female, he perceives, that he must be doing something right.

But he made the following assumption: The number 1 priority for all men, is to get married, and by doing so, their status increases, because a woman has selected them. He knows this socially and subconsciously, but not rationally, the way I am outlining here.

A woman also controls him. Historically, this has been the case. A woman only does so, successfully, when she respects him. He wants her validation, and will go to war, to a certain death, to obtain it.

A woman can only respect a man who does this. It is not for his intelligence, hence—intelligence does not make him a competent leader to females.

What makes him a competent leader, is testosterone.

Social norms, today, have abolished the man’s authority, and increased his responsibility, which disincentivizes him. Many women, no longer respect men. What is the result? A majority of men engage in masturbation (or the depletion of their semen). They have been educated (by feminists) to believe their semen has no value, and masturbation is healthy.

Semen is a man’s life-force. When recycled into the blood-stream, every seven days, it fills the blood with testosterone.

Semen makes a man, a man, and a natural leader. It will increase his immune system, his vitality, and his strength. Why have testosterone levels in men been decreasing for the last 40 years in Western society?

Pornography.

Why have women become leaders in Western society? An abundance of unmotivated weak men, who have not needed to be strong. There is a reason why all major religions preach against lust. It makes men weak.

And when men become weak, society fails. It will be conquered by strong men.

Society is maintained by women, but it cannot be built without masculine men. Civilization is enforced by the female collective. Today, women can hold men accountable, but increasingly, men cannot hold women accountable. This is because women do what is in their best interest, or they think they are doing what is in their best interest. The government has deceived them into believing they do not need a man. In this way, the government exercises more control over society. Afterall, in today’s society, a man is useless and incompetent, right? Look at TV. Bart Simpson. Men are laughed at. And people will say, it’s only comedy, but jokes are funny because they are true.

Men have lost their morality, and they have been told, “it’s no big deal.” This is a lie.

Women can only respect a man, if he is virtuous. So, I am advocating for a strong Western society. And the way that Western society becomes strong, is the following:

Men turn away from lust. If a man retains his semen for 90 days, he will be extremely attractive to women, confident, purposeful, more intelligent, more creative, and he will consider God for the first time in his life. He will stop complaining about his situation, and he will tell other men, about morality that works. I know this is an unusual post, but I believe it’s an important one. True morality is logical, and false morality is insane. Western society is insane right now! If you are a man or woman, don’t argue with my opinions. Do what a wise person does, and put information into practice, in order to test it. That is the only way knowledge becomes wisdom. We learn from experience, when we test our knowledge against reality. I’m wishing you all the best, and let’s build a strong Western society.

-Intellectual Shaman

Chapter 3 Gregson, and the Missing Women

“Why do you need that orange life preserver?” The red-head asked. “We can see that you have a large flotation device between your legs.” She put her hands on Gregson’s chest.

It was true. He could still see his manhood, even with several extra pounds. A doctor told him once, “If you lose weight, your testosterone will rise.”

“Doc, if I lose weight, I’ll go nuclear.”

The women were getting closer, and Gregson felt his blood boiling. Steam was rising off his body, like black-top on a sunny day, after a thunderstorm. The blonde had her hands on his waste, and the black-haired goddess walked like a cat towards him, preparing to pounce on prey.

“Gregson!”

The PI looked-up at the sand dunes. There was Murphy, standing in the beach grass with an umbrella drink.

“Sorry ladies, but I need to borrow my friend.”

Gregson followed Murphy’s voice. The women reacted like cats who had been kicked. They lay on their beach towels, and let the sun soak-up their disappointment.

“Some view, huh?” Murphy said.

“Some view.” Gregson looked back. “Do you think they’ll get melanoma?”

“No. But they might get crabs. They spend a lot of time, down there by the beach, hoping for a male to come out of the water.”

“That’s not how women act, where I’m from,” Gregson said.

“Precisely. The president put this place together, on a limited budget. It doesn’t exist, on a map. Technically, it doesn’t belong to anybody.”

“What is this place, then? And why did you ask me here?”

“Well… besides you being a bachelor, and me knowing you might appreciate the view, strange things have been happening…”

“Like what?” Gregson asked.

“Well…”

“How many women are on this island?” Gregson asked.

“There should be 104, but 4 are missing.”

“How many men?”

“Not counting the governor, you, or myself… about 8.”

“How can there be, about 8?” Gregson asked.

“Well, I was showering with Jeremy, one of the guards, and I saw his surgical scar. It might be testicular cancer, or an angry husband.”

Gregson winced in pain, just thinking about it. “So, you want me to find the missing women?”

“Not exactly,” Murphy said. “I want you to figure out, the real purpose behind this island. Occasionally, we get new women, but never any men. They’re all from well-to-do families, and University educated.”

“What’s your purpose here, Murphy?

“I’m supposed to find the women. The President visits twice a year, for entertainment, if you catch my drift?”

“Why do they stay? They can’t possibly want to be with an 80-year-old man, although—power goes a long way.”

“That’s what I want you to figure-out, Gregson. The governor is not normal. He has some form of clinical background—you can tell. Politicians are slick—but he is prickly, or just a down-right prick.”

I’m Colorblind. Red Lights are Green!

It always feels better

to save money

or to save time

not to wait in line

and to get green lights.

It doesn’t feel right, like, the universe smiled on me

and frowned on everybody else.

It’s like when you are on vacation, in the middle of the day

and everybody else is doing something monotonous

in those moments, it helps, not to have any empathy

and even better, a psychopathic sensibility

Otherwise, you can’t enjoy your cherished time

the lonely man, who knows his loneliness is a good trade

enjoys a theater movie, while the building is burning

and the patrons are running for the exit,

trampling each other, to survive

But what will they do, after the show?

I’m eating popcorn, now, while the skylights fall, and the curtains catch on fire

Lawrence, doesn’t need to drink water, like a Western man

I feel that way

Let the hordes of humanity come

Let them bring picks and shovels

Let them say, “We are right,” in the name of God or the State or their own personal opinions

I am wrong

a holiday is a holy day, in hell.

Having friends over, is not my style

It’s time to myself

it’s the ability to hide

Being invisible

makes me invincible

neither needed, nor wanted

Totally at peace

a vice, I don’t want to escape from

What would happen if someone was capable of sharing the same space with me?

Probably, what happens to the couple downstairs

She screams

He listens

She screams, some more

He listens

then he can’t take it, anymore, and the door slams

The world is divided into people who scream and those who listen

I don’t hear good conversations

People, are tired of each other

tired of work,

tired of waiting for the weekend,

tired of doing time

They don’t know what to do with themselves

They are waiting to die

waiting to live

waiting to be told what to do

I feel better, when I’m not waiting for anyone or anything

My sense of waste is gone

I had a dream, last night

where my boss told me, “I admire your individualism, but I want my team with me, to receive equal credit.”

I argued with her, and explained myself in my sleep.

It didn’t matter. She still thinks the same.

I’m starting to think, I’m valuable.

I was hanging-out with my friends, yesterday

and they were talking about, being out of place and time

in their careers, and relationships

“I only make 19 dollars an hour, and I’m 30, but if I stay in school, I’ll make more than my age,” she said.

“I have a friend, who has never worked, never gone to college, and never been in a relationship,” I said. “All he does is exist, and he loves his existence.”

They didn’t understand that.

Samurai Story

I was searching for something—that’s the closest way to describe my state of mind, at the time. I was living in a low-income apartment, by a whore, next door, who had regular guests. Her boy was the curious type, and self-reliant, because he was rejected by the other kids, who played in packs, in the parking-lot. Tony, wanted me to be his dad, but his mom was a heroin addict, and had more traffic in her nether regions than a baseball stadium, during the world series. I felt sorry for him, when he came over. He wore a yellow cap, faded with sweat, and the same jeans, and orange tee-shirt. He looked like a little sun. I left my door open on Saturdays, so that he could come over. I kept my door open, since women think men interested in kids are perverts. I think it’s the other way around. These women have dirty minds, but it doesn’t matter—their lives are dull, so they have to sharpen them with gossip.

“Mr. Johnson, what are those on your wall?”

“Tony—that’s what you call a Samurai Sword. It is the warrior’s soul.”

“Are you a Samurai, Mr. Johnson?”

“I wish. The last Samurai was made obsolete by modernness.”

“What’s modernness?”

“Modernness is the unseen mechanization of society.” I could tell he didn’t understand. “People make all of their decisions with money in mind.”

“Oh—so, they don’t do things because they want to, but they do them for money?”

“You’re a smart kid, Tony. Too bad your mom’s a whore.”

“Too bad,” Tony said.

“Do you want some pancakes?” I asked.

He smiled. Tony had no fat on him. He looked like a tee-shirt with bones sticking out.

“We’ve got some syrup and strawberry jam next door,” Tony said.

“We’d better not use that. Your mom can’t be trusted. I’ve got Maple Syrup from the tree, and fresh strawberries and blueberries. Let me put some batter on the griddle, and you can watch TV.

Tony sat down next to my 50-inch plasma screen TV. My dirty videos were inside their dust jackets. Nobody watched VHS, anymore—so it was a sure way they would stay hidden, but Tony was interested.

“Mr. Johnson, what are these?” He asked.

“Stick to bluray,” I said. “Those are for lonely men.” Tony found Robin Hood and put it in. The fox and the bear were outwitting the rascal lion.

“Pancakes are ready,” I said. Tony enjoyed them. I could see his belly expanding. When he finished, he went home, and two minutes later, I got a knock on my door.

“Something’s wrong with my mom,” Tony said. I followed him into Sheree’s apartment. His mom was lying on the floor covered in vomit, with a needle sticking out of her arm. She was dead.

“Why don’t you watch another cartoon Tony, and I’ll call the police?”

When they got there, I had to answer questions from a fat detective who intimidated me.

“You said, she had 12 tricks a day?”

“At least.”

“And you never talked to any of them?”

“I never went over there. I just kept my door open for the boy.”

“What? Are you some kind of pervert?”

“I don’t like kids. My preference is women around the age of 25.”

“Sorry, but I had to ask. Would you consider adopting?”

I hadn’t thought about that. Tony would grow up to rip-off apartment stores, if he didn’t have a father to beat him occasionally—and tell him right from wrong.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“When the social worker comes around, get her contact information. The boy needs a home, and I can tell you love the boy.”

He left.

The problem was, I loved myself, more than anybody, and chicks don’t dig a single guy with a kid. I went to the dojo to commune with my master. He was smoking Hashish, and listing to Jam music while he played with his Samurai sword. He was a wannabe Mr. Miyagi who made weekend dollars by pretending to be 200 years old.

“Samurai Sam?”

“Aiy.”

“Can I ask your advice about something?”

“Aiy.”

“Could you stop acting?”

“Aiy.”

I gave up. His eyes were dilated 8 balls. He was a drug addict.

“Samurai Sam, should I adopt the boy next door?”

“What? Are you a pervert?”

“No. His mother overdosed.”

“Oh—bring him into the dojo. We will teach him how to be Samurai.”

I left my master and went home to my messy apartment, full of mail and rotting Chinese food. The social worker stopped by. She was fat and a feminist.

“Detective Talbert told me you were interested in adoption?” Her eyes were giving me suspicious looks.

I was 35, single, and I liked to be alone, but society didn’t like that. I needed more than a hobby. A girlfriend was okay—although, they always messed up my life. It was impossible to please them. They were like temporary storms that pointed out my inadequacies, and then moved on to destroy some other man. But— I needed to get one that could tolerate me—the uglier, the better. One that could clean. A troll to keep in my dungeon.

“Yes—I’m interested. I want to adopt.”

“Okay. We’ll bring the paperwork by, and I’ll make it official. I’ll need to do an inspection of your apartment to make sure it’s a suitable home.”

“His mother overdosed on heroine and was a prostitute.”

“That might be, but we have standards for men who want to be fathers. Fill out this questionnaire.” It was 500 questions. They asked the same question different ways. It would be easier to let the kid be raised by the State, but Tony was a good egg. I couldn’t let him spoil. By the time I was done with the form, my head hurt more than when I took my SATs.

Two weeks later, Tony was my boy, and I had him in martial arts. He was using a real Samurai sword. I didn’t tell the social worker that, when she did her routine inspections. Then Detective Talbert stopped by one evening.

“You know what, Mr. Johnson? We found out the heroine load, was three times what Sheree normally drugged herself with, and we don’t think she committed suicide.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Her boy. Why else?”

“Okay. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. Case is closed on our end.”

He left. The police were good if they could find the dead bodies. The live ones that actual did murder, was a whole other matter. Tony had to watch himself. Thus, I made a few changes. I got rid of my dirty book collection and movies. We started going to church. And I found a woman who told me she was a virgin. Of course, I didn’t believe her, but she was trying to uphold a standard, and I thought, she might make a good mother. It was June, and Tony was home from school. I worked as a software engineer. It was soul-sucking work, where I designed programs that killed viruses. I had a mustache. Only police, and engineers can have mustaches. My brother grew one. He worked in a school. They found an excuse to fire him. He looked like a pervert.  

Long story short—I came home one day, to find the severed head of Sheree’s pimp in the parking lot. I got a sick feeling in my stomach—not from the body—but from my intuition. When I opened my apartment door, I found my Samurai sword lying on the bloody carpet, and Tony watching TV, without it being turned on.

“Did you murder your mom’s pimp? I asked.

“Yes.”

At least he was honest…

“You might get life in prison.”

“No. I’m only 11.”

“What happened?”

“He came to collect, and I asked him if he wanted some lemonade. I got him a glass, and did a clean sweep in the parking lot.”

“He’ll have friends,” I said.

“So, what?”

“They’ll try to kill you.”

Tony didn’t say anything. I called 911 and told Detective Talbert what happened.

“And you say he did it with a Samurai sword?”

“Yes.”

“Good for him. I can offer you some protection during the interim, but you both are mostly on your own. We’re short-staffed after the Ban the Police initiatives.”

“Okay,” I said.

It was summer vacation. Tony stayed at home. There was a police car that drove by, every-so-often.

A couple weeks into summer, I got home, and Tony was missing. I didn’t know what to do. I thought about calling the police, but maybe Tony had made friends. I would make sourdough pancakes from my germ marinating in the batter box. Tony would want some when he came home. I turned on the griddle, and went for my sourdough. I lifted the lid, and there was Tony, looking up at me, with horror in his eyes.

“And that’s your final story?” Detective Talbert asked.

“It’s the truth,” I said.

“You are a sick pervert. We found the boy’s body in the dumpster, and you tried to preserve his head—what for? We’re going to throw you into the darkest Penn, where the animals will eat you, in all kinds of ways!”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong! You’ve got to believe me…”

The End

Hidden Rules for the Artist

If you put-out different energy, it’s like a force of gravity

The problem is… I don’t know where it comes from

I woke up at 2 AM, full of life

I decided to violate my diet, and cook a pizza for breakfast

I’m researching the occult for a story I’m writing,

so, I read my library books by candle light

One of my candles fell over, and set my apartment carpet on fire

this was not in the occult manual

I stamped it out, and burned a hole in one of my black socks

I’m glad it was a cold night

How do I feel about magic? Some people have it, and others don’t

It doesn’t seem to be something you can learn from a book

Magic is the ability to conjure ideas in the mind, and bring them into existence

It is your will, in the world

What most people don’t realize, is that they are following someone else’s will

going to college, getting a job, buying a house, is the will of the masses

Even status games, are a way to control what people do

L. Ron Hubbard was trying to buy an island from an existing government, so that he could have his own country

He was a man who used his imagination

The Current PC Culture, which is a derivative of Cult

has us monitoring our speech

similar to major religions, that want us to police our thoughts

so that our ideas are held in captivity

We cannot believe in something, without experiencing it

and to choose fear as the governor of our lives

is to shrink in size

Love expands, and should be the dominant emotion that allows us to step-out into faith

“Crazy People” are often original, because they are uninhibited from the inside-out

Occult, comes from within

It is a hidden knowledge, a kind of power, that is not found in a book

it grows from instinct

similar to imagination

people read, without understanding

they take false ideas, and use them to confirm their false beliefs

they judge everything, by what they don’t understand

It is best to keep your knowledge hidden

let it change you

This is the purpose of knowledge

Information that becomes opinion

quickly spirals into cheap talk

which is never understood, because it has no meaning

There are rules for the artist

who toys with human emotions

the more you understand them, the better able

you can play with human consciousness.