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.

The Devils in the Darkness, and You, the Light

there is nothing, so satisfying, as being the light

in a dark room

When you walk in, faces dim

your presence, changes that

some resist—they have to

to go along with you, would be, to get drunk on light

this world is dark, and the people in it, are lost

the light, begins with you, and ends, with other points of light

at first, you are sleeping in the dark, and you can’t breathe

because, something wakes you up

a lack of air

an invisible lack, you can’t see in the dark

you turn-on your reading light, but the words are a waste

someone wrote something

who is lost

finding those who are found

is an anchor, in the library

through swirling gales of TV

and news,

meant to confuse

You find a point of light, that spreads

and those who are found

are profound

It takes time, to understand

Their simple words are not meant to confuse

Turning complicated, into Simple

is an Art.

It becomes a craft, to Cultivate light

Only use it for good

Don’t spread darkness, for your own gain

Those who do, while they have the Truth

are devils.

I went to the dentist

I went to the dentist

and she told me… “You are grinding your teeth at night. What’s bothering you?”

“Oh—the usual things,” I said. “Our lawyers are fighting with their lawyers, where I work.”

“And it’s keeping you up at night?”

“Sure. I can’t keep the bad thoughts out of my head.”

“Well, you remember last time we met, I was pregnant?”

I thought I had, but I didn’t want to say anything, because she was a big girl. What if I was wrong? She continued…

“Now my son is 1.4 years old. It’s been a long time since you’ve been to the dentist.” She scolded me with her eyes. “Now, open wide, and I’ll clean your teeth.”

She was sweet, even though most people hate the dentist. They’re the number one suicide risk profession. My job is number two—psychologist.

“You have acid in your mouth,” she said. “I think I know what this is—you have sleep apnea.”

“What? But I’m a young guy.”

“Young—has nothing to do with it. What happens is, your throat contracts like a straw, closing your air passage. Your subconscious mind wakes you up, but not all the way. Then you grind your teeth, in a reflex response. We can provide you with a sleep study. It will cost you 200 dollars, out of pocket. What do you think?” She asked.

“It sounds like a con. You dentists are con artists. Before—you used to drill holes in teeth and fill them, if you needed a little extra cash. Now, it’s sleep studies.”

She was taken aback. “Well, you don’t want to die in your sleep,” she said.

“Sure, I do. It’s the best way to go.”

“Yes, but not when you’re 35. You want to live to be 95, right?”

“I’m going to live to 105. Heck—115. I will never die.”

I could tell, she thought, she was dealing with a lunatic.

“Now—about your anxiety…” she said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the following study, I’m about to tell you?”

Why do people assume I know everything? I must look competent. Everything, isn’t worth knowing. It’s kinda like books. I believe there are only a few worth reading, lost in the trillions of bad words written. Good books are like good friends, and I hate most people.

My mind had drifted off, again…

the way it usually does, like a survivor, floating on the boring seas…

“Think of the color you hate,” she said. “For me, it’s brown. After my pregnancy, I was having some bad ideas. My psychologist told me to push the bad colors out of my body. Then, I should swallow my favorite color—green.”

No wonder people think my profession is for quacks, I thought. Clearly, brown represents human waste.

“I’ve never heard of that,” I said.

“Well…you learn something new every day. Stop trying to help me out when I clean your teeth. You keep flexing your jaw, and I don’t want you to get tired.”

“I’m not trying to help you,” I said.

She giggled. Apparently, I’m funny. “Now, my secretary will give you the machine.”

When I went to see her secretary, I was looking at a very young girl. “What’s your birthdate?” She asked.

I told her.

“Oh, that’s 10 years different from me,” she said. “The CPAP machine will cost you 3,000 dollars.”

How am I going to make it in this world? My competence is in decline, while everybody is so serious about their work. It sickens me, that they love to do, monotonous tasks. They murder their curiosity. Strangely, as I get older, I have become more curious, and less competent—useless, to society—only useful to myself.

“Hey, this might seem like a random question,” I asked, “But, do you get many patients who still have their wisdom teeth?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I thought so. Why do we pull them out?”

“Because people aren’t using them,” she said.

“That makes sense.”

The End

Doors Will Open, When You Write

“I need to write!” I yelled.

but the writing gods did not respond

I played the piano, trying to think of a good story

but none came to me.

Knowing where to dig, is not enough

excitement, is an ingredient, in your creative soup

You have to get excited, about discovering, what’s hidden

Writing can’t be your life

because your life must be wrong, and so right

to write

Curiosity and Creativity are lovers

Set them up on a date, stoke their passions

with perfume

and candle light

and you still might not get, the chemistry just right, to write

If you write to make a statement beyond black ink

you aren’t ready

Writing is a mythical creature, found in the dark forest

It’s the only magic I know

People have told me, it’s not practical

or I’m doing my real life harm, when I live in my imagination

but they don’t know what writing is

Anything worth doing, requires fairy dust

Otherwise, we become mechanical

and with enough reason, we realize

a city, is a city

and not a place with magical lights

a golf course is a field, with flags and holes

and nothing can be accomplished there, but drunkenness

So, where do we get our fairy dust from?

Friends–the ones who can’t be bought, and tell us

who we really are

Magic, has to be found

like love, for the first time

or a talent, you never knew you had

life isn’t logical or linear

it’s a dark field at night, where fireflies get tossed in the wind, and congregate

To have a life, worth living, requires entrance, into another world

where doors, sometimes, lock you out

because, they don’t yield by command

People who talk about responsibilities and stress

like a badge of status, don’t believe in anything else

It’s easy to neglect other kinds of power

when you think you have it

Writing, is not the sound of a typewriter

or the red, underlined words, of a word processor

Writing, is the world you find, for yourself

and with a choice, you can choose, not to come back

and that’s okay

because most of us, walk away, from doors

and if we walk on through, sometimes, we get locked out

We wonder…is it worth it? Is it time, to join adult life?

but I don’t think so

Magic, can only be known, in this state of mind

It is not the mind of the masses.

It is true power.

Doors will open,

when you write.

The Monsters Inside Me

the spirits within, are an unnatural sin

they grow, like weeds, in my flowerbed mind

We can’t help what we admire—a certain kind of cool

Rebels,

without any rules

to be the real deal, and not to pretend

Possession

that speaks

while they listen

their negative reactions, are their submission

to my will

because they need a master

the monsters that kill

and keep me alive

like wolves that must to be fed

I feed them all, generously

so, they don’t eat me up, from the inside

to argue, and to defend

is to disbelieve my gamble

I am dangerous, when I practice danger

My motivations, are like a cocktail of fear

the worst sin, is to question them, afraid of the hangover

pure

or impure—

prolific is my law

passion, is a drug, that dries up

“What is the artist saying?”

“It’s not a statement, but a bed of flowers.”

“When do you know you are finished with a poem?”

“When do you know, you are finished making love?”

Without love, you have to live, like other lives

always questioning, what you do

greatness is born on its hands and feet

and walks, because it needs to

then it runs

and never stops running

the only law, is power

vulnerable and raw, like a pound of pounded flesh

How can you question your soul, when it soars into the heavens?

It might be black, but it belongs to you

let it sleep in the wind

Your wings, want you to fly

without them, you are a terrible lizard.

Worn Tiger

How wretched I am

How much more, do I love the worn tiger

with his patchy coat, and Siberian Scars

I don’t have self-sympathy

it makes me

prey

and less, of a self-righteous predator

Majesty—

is shining off my coat

while I look into the mirror,

unable to prove my worth

my claws, rubbed across rocks

a toothless wild cat

smiling

without fangs

failure, must be known and honed

because my heart pumps for life

even, and most especially, when confronted with death

nature, doesn’t have any sympathy

and the worn tiger, doesn’t want any

he plods along

consumed, by his own consumption

amber eyes

to be fossilized, black flies

the warm abundant life, never known, in the mountains of Siberia

exile, in loneliness

in the greatness that can only be felt like a sin

scoffers and mockers can be heard on the wind

the worn tiger, doesn’t mind

their games, don’t interest him

it is the brutal wish for reality

that forces him above the snowline

Even if, he would obey,

curling-up, outside common houses, without character

he would only be a house cat

a harmless king, without power

walked around the neighborhood, on a leash.

Better to be unfriendly,

unforgiving,

unable to live, if not, in the right way

to die by his own law,

the law of his fathers

Sunsets, of pink fire

before, his last roar

the wolves howling, in the lowlands

while nature prepares

her final course

Worn, but still a tiger

remembered, and forgotten

by men.

Falling In and Out of Love

Love doesn’t want us

and then, we don’t want love

there is no spark, to burn down the forest

We try one love, and then another

it’s a lighter, that doesn’t light

we have to keep trying, into the black night

the cold bitter frost

that steals our warmth

while we try, and try, and try

it’s an awkward kiss

How can a man with an alcoholic brain, write?

How can the king of coke, do the deed, like he stole it?

Why do the beggars, in the street, have to beg for more?

I get worse, at being worse, because I practice it

like mammon, selecting prostitutes

I think “pretty good,” is the phrase

bitterness, like coffee, in bed

my mind, is dead

this non-creative brain, is a waking nightmare

take passion, like a prescription

give me hope

not random words or stale sentences

I want to go nuclear

rather than whimpering like a baby

without nourishment

drowning in a mud puddle

listening to the sound, that grates my brain, like cheddar cheese

I climb hills, even if they aren’t mountains

I keep going

what choice do I have?

I take comfort in discomfort

accepting the unacceptable

because love endures, despite no love at all

it’s a fat wife, who nags

a father, who beats his children

I’ve never known perfect love

It leaves,

like a mother who forgets her son at school

What is life teaching us?