An unspectacular life

Walter Middy has nothing on me. Neither does Zelig. As cut-out men go, I escaped the big one, more than once. So, I know there is no actual “Big One.”

There are many.

But its scary, nonetheless, being so empty, but needfully able to fill myself, like a puffer fish one moment, or a truly ferocious shark the next. The contrast-and the psychological profile it fits– is not lost on me either because as fake as either persona is, they are also both very real. Is there such a thing as a puffer-shark?

Meh. This is just a story.

Morphology is my suit, and according to some, I wear it well. Maybe not as well as that poor guy they found in a hotel room, dead as dirt, and stuffed like a dirty netbag of basketballs into a gym bag that time, but yeah–we all have our suits.

I am a shape shifter, in the dialectic. Shape shifting is older thanJesus, or even Pharaoh’s. Or, Jannet, and her mom, with her ninth husband, a United States Air Force Veteran (no combat designation.)

Jannet has her suits too. She loves to wear African tribal dresses, though she only knows a thing or two about “Zimbabweland.”

I still to this day have no fucking idea what the deal is with those hillbilly sim-spellings of names that anyone could have looked up in a dictionary or an encyclopedia before they plastered them on their kids, but here we are, right? Yeah–its annoying. Lots and lots of “Margarets” and “Mary Jane’s” and “Lisa’s” and “Karen’s” I know-

But that’s her name, and she hates it if you pronounce it correctly as in “Jan-net.” Its probably subliminal, something the Freuds would have a thing or two to analyze, which I never did. I mean her mother was a “Dalanette.” Fuck, I am glad that generation has almost passed away!

Well, so its goes with her fat friend “Josy” too, a “social services worker” too–by cover and by trade–“No, it’s Josy, short for Jocelyn!” she heaves over a plate of what looks like frise’e lettuce smothered in too-much-black-vinaigrette (please forgive me as I type this out, I really don’t give a fuck about spell checker, or fancy symbol charts, and foreign language alphabets, or accents and so on when I bust off these missiles into cyberspace).

“My mom gave me that name because she had a French friend named Jocelyn when she was in New York for college.”

“Oh, really,” I say, nibbling at my burger, wondering why fat people always eat salad when in “polite company.”

Fuck yeah, polite! I want to tell her that that kind of lettuce has more calories than ice cream, but I hold off. Personal jokes at the expense of fat people are rude, I know this, now.

“Yeah, she was her best friend. They used to go to rallies together, burn their bra’s, it was very real!”

Oh, that’s really interesting (it’s not). Wow, what a heroine (she is not). I mean, my inner dialogue is saying this, right?

“Wow! She was ahead of her time,” I say, and “Isn’t it amazing what women can do when they band together for a common cause of civil liberty, and equality?”

“Right, exactly,” she says, wolfing down that half an egg plastred with black tar vinegar and spuces which defy description here, like its the last formerly fertile thing she will ever see again.And I do mean “formerly.”

And it goes like this with these types, one after the other. Cut-outs.

Cut-outs of each other, cut-outs of myths, cut-outs of stereotypes–down to the carefully sanded saw marks around their edges, that labor provided by someone else–some agency maybe, called the “Edge Sanding and Polishing Service of America,” (or another country unspecified.) Each one of them, to me at least, just more firewood or toothpicks, as a song that inspired a mass murderer plays in the background.

I mean–who can truly know what the Agent Clarice Starllings of yesteryear “really went through” to get where they are at today? I imagine there are “some secrets,” right?

I think that song playing was “God Save the Queen,” or a similar national folk ballad, but really, I stopped keeping track around victim number three.

Victim Number Three:

A short bald man sits in a park, wearing a suit. Think ” The Zoo Story,” or something similar (there is NOTHING SIMILAR to the Zoo Story.)

A pleasant day, for the most part, up until now, when my balls start to sweat. At 69 degrees, most wouldn’t call this hot, but it is, considering the “global warming” caused cold spurt of the last week, and the lack of wind here, now, and yesterday. 69 is a heat wave compared to that.

A mirror flashes on a hill to my left; the hurried activity of three people in a car to my right; a bird whistling in the distance–that is not a bird of course–of course!

Ironic and bad, the bird is whistling off key. A song that is out of place for this park-this country for GODS SAKE–its a southern warbler–FOR GODS SAKE, you STUPID FUCK!

I fucking hate fat people with a sort of–I think–biological and necessary passion; and fat black people with weird warbles annoy me even more, though Skeddy has his moments where I thank the cosmos for him, and then hate myself later. Neither here nor there, but that warble would have been picked up by any number of insiders had they heard it. A risk, in this area for any mountain folk. Any bird caller would be on high alert, but not that bald guy. Nope. Because he is a target, and an accountant.

A shy denizen of southern canebrakes, Swainson’s Warbler is more often heard than seen. It spends most of its time on or near the ground in dense cover, walking about in search of insects.

And a fag to boot. A fat black fag, promoted through the ranks probably BECAUSE he is a fat black fag! Disgusting. But, he is good with leads, and frankly, a shooter. I like that about him. His brother, Stan, is anything but. More about that later.


To my way of reckoning, accountants don’t generally have the mindset of bird call aficionado’s, much less any social awareness of what the difference is between subtly racist, southern dialectic ploys in narrative, or fucking Skeddy’s stupid, uncalled for ironic humor in this situation.


Who knows, right? The guy is a government accountant, like that guy who did the Las Vegas shooting. Those guys are usually more deeply invested in studying other things before they get brain zapped. And, as August approaches, the bright star Vega will be prominently featured in the southern sky. I think that is maybe something. These shootings are not “random.”

I sat in on a joint session, and they were playing the tape, that stupid fucker going “They’re zapping me with satellites!”

I cannot laugh harder every time I hear that phrase–maybe because where a few of my friends live, there is a huge green laser that actually zaps satellites BACK, in mesmerizing displays of electronics, spread around the entire world, the “Jew-lasers” that the Southern Senator talks about, but forgets her idol Ronald Reagan planning.

That green beam….The kind of stuff that can paralyze entire phone networks, and spot on disrupt all of those fuckers who are disrupting everyone else. We need a tool like that to fight the gang stalkers, I am pretty sure of that.

But “Hold on, little bald guy! There is hope! But you will have to wait on it for awhile, because look!”

At the top of the hill, there is movement. A car rolls up, another mirror flashes.

I look to my right, and dust rises from the road. Its a black SUV, and it stops, about half a kilometer from where I am standing–with dust, monoculars are seldom necessary, because in a controlled live drop environment you can make educated guesses about what, or who is occupying that terrain, such as:

“Friend or foe,” (right, I know?)

Or “Good guys, bad guys,” (riiight. I know.)

And “My guys or their guys.” (not so much a trope as you might expect.)

But it is “our guys,” this time.

The accountant gets up, the mirror flashes.

The Accountant steps to his right, drops a newspaper as he walks down to the fountain.


The script did NOT have him drop the news paper! Interesting, but not significant yet. Yet…

At the fountain, he takes a drink. I am guessing that the Hill has a read on his nuanced body language, and I can’t see it fully, because, yeah-fucking monocular!

The SUV slowly approaches, and the Accountant stops his drink. He looks around, and takes off his suit-coat. I wonder how long he lasted in that damn thing, because it’s late July, and with the lack of Bay winds, he should have been baked like a potato sitting there as he did.

But he didn’t, which is a feat in and of itself. Fucking Towel Heads. I think they have an extra sweat gland or something in their bodies, but I can’t be sure. I will study that sometime if I ever have the –

“I am not the one!” The accountant is screaming.

“I am not the ONE!”

The accountant is falling.

The SUV is rolling. The Hill has come to life like a swarm of hornets. Black jackets, with yellow letters streaming down the Hill.

Despite my own memory of doing so, I was also running. I was as it were the point man to a suicide. When I arrived, it was basically all over. That stupid fucker shot his face off.

I got a commendation. “Josy” got a promotion, and the shitbags in the SUV? They do this for a living. It happens every day, and it is happening now.

Gang stalking is purely a diabolical form of social engineering.

And Jan-Net? She is still fucking young college aged boys, and feeling them up for their politics, and turning them over to one or another of her “friends” in “high places.” She was, after all, part of the Devils Mafia.Her trainers were CIA.

The Accountant? Just another FBI Informant, who challenged his “destiny.”

And, maybe his purpose, too.

Overseeing suicides is ugly business, but its what I do. And, you can keep your commentary to yourself, unless you have seen what I have seen. These bastards deserve what they get, every one of them.

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