The Evil Gene

The lights snapped on and he awoke to the sound of bootsteps and rattling keys. Gene knew he had slept soundly through the last night he would have to be incarcerated. He rose to his feet and stretched out the kinks in his muscles.

Darryl, his cellmate smiled as he opened his eyes and rose from his cot. His crime had been particularly brutal, having killed both his in-laws for the insurance money. Since the treatment, though, he had been as tame as a church mouse. Gene’s treatment had been successful too. Together, the two of them prayed.

It had been almost seven years earlier when the scientific community had announced to the world that they had successfully charted the recesses of the human brain, an accomplishment almost as profound as the human genome project. It wasn't long until doctors learned to suppress activities in certain areas of the brain. In particular, they could suppress the centers responsible for violent and aggressive behavior.

In the news, and on the street, people did not believe this was true. They suspected that the so-called 'treatment ' was merely a cover for the practice of lobotomizing violent criminals. So, it wasn't surprising that James took exception to the procedure. He had been hauled into the prison kicking and screaming, fresh out of court with the blood still plastered all over his knuckles, strapped to a gurney and rolled into the treatment chamber.

It was full of technology like imaging monitors, computer screens and precision microwave emitters. Its sinister appearance and the cold impassive eyes of the doctors and technicians made him feel like a laboratory animal, completely at their mercy. From his viewpoint, he could see a glass wall of an operating theatre. There were over a dozen people staring down at him and scribbling notes.

The tallest man there pulled down his surgical mask, looked up at the audience and spoke.

“ Over the space of approximately a century, science and medicine have studied the human mind, and have searched for a solution to the problem of criminal behavior. The most well known, and one of the least successful, was the use of operant conditioning.”

“This was demonstrated in the middle of the last century by placing an infant in an enclosure with a rabbit, and then was scared by the sound of a loud air horn, which made him cry. After that, at the sight of a rabbit, he would start to cry. The two stimuli and the emotional responses they created had been associated in the child’s mind. The practical offshoot of this principal became to be known as aversion therapy. It was used to make a violent felon associate violent images with a feeling of nausea.”

“In our treatment, however, we take the problem to its very source within the human brain. We now know the specific area of the brain that causes violent and aggressive behavior. Neurosurgeons now can surgically disconnect this area from the neural pathways in the brain. This causes any stimuli that would normally provoke an aggressive response to be totally blocked from the conscious mind.”

Then, he replaced his mask and turned to stare down at Gene. He didn’t understand most of what the doctor had said, but he was certain that he didn’t like it.

He continued his vain attempts at a struggle an IV was inserted in his arm and the tube was percied by a syringe. The drug quickly rushed to his head. The last things he remembered were two lab assistants fumbling with a metal jig they were placing over his shaved head. “Damn” he heard one assistant say as he clumsily struggled with the jib. “Careful,” the other said, “ If it doesn’t fit properly, this guy will be a vegetable.” Then there was the sound and the faint vibration of the drill that bored through his scalp and into his skull.

He remembered nothing until he awoke in his cell days later feeling strangely calm and peaceful.

As it turned out, there was no 'evil gene', no inborn capacity for violence. Violence only begets violence, but the cycle had been stopped, leaving the criminals mind free for higher pursuits. How it would affect their survival skills was another matter entirely. It was like de-clawing a cat and letting it try to fend for itself.

His cellmate had become the leader of the bible group a few years earlier, and together they had prayed in earnest during the many long, dark stretches of night when the brutality of their pasts would revisit them and chase away any chance of a restful sleep.

In short order, the guards arrived at his cell to usher him out of his captivity. He quickly gathered his belongings and packed them into the cardboard box they had provided him. They then led him through the gray, cavernous corridors of the high-security penitentiary.

He passed by dozens of cells on his route. Many of the prisoners inside were praying. One was playing Brahms on a flute, the subtle, rich tones filling the cathedral-like acoustics of the building. Another cell was covered in Zen inspired ink brush paintings the prisoner had rendered in his own hand. They had a deceptive simplicity and amazing depths. The painter had sat in silence for hours before picking up his brush.

There was no swearing, no stabbings and no rapes, no violence whatsoever. What had once been a hell on earth where the guards would look the other way as their prisoners would find ever more sadistic ways to prey on their fellows had become a peaceful haven for quiet souls who had lost their way. All of this was thanks to the treatment.

When they ushered him into the discharge area, a sullen surly guard rooted through the rows of metal shelving that covered the far wall and produced a box containing everything he had on his person when he was arrested. It contained a comb and an empty wallet. The switchblade and the wad of bills were missing. The clothes he had worn had been picked clean by forensics. It was all evidence that had been presented during his brief time in front of a judge. He was given a cheap suit, courtesy of the prison.

The prison may have become peaceful, but it was never meant to be comfortable. He was reminded of this when he was told to strip out of his orange jumpsuit and don the suit in front of the three guards. Then he signed the clipboard and they opened the door to the real world, and the door to freedom.

The sunshine struck his eyes. It was very different then the neon lights and windowless rooms he had become accustomed to. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and then a prison funded taxi rolled up in front of him. He entered the cab and said goodbye to paradise.

The cab slowly weaved its way through the vehicle- choked labyrinth of streets that snaked its way through the safe, clean façade of the suburbs until the landmarks became increasingly familiar as the taxi entered the inner city. There were the same old decrepit buildings packed with desperate people who survived in any way they could, and there were people, even more desperate, littered over the landscape, begging for change on street corners and sleeping in alleyways sheltered by cardboard boxes.

His sister was the sole person from his past that would take him back. It gave him a warm feeling to know that his sister had finally forgiven him. He hoped that he could finally be the big brother that he should have been; it would be a great foundation on which to build a new life.

The cab deposited him at the front steps of an old building. He climbed up the front cradling his cardboard box under his arm, elbowing his way past the junkies laying all over the steps and rang his sister’s buzzer.
With a friendly hello, she buzzed him in. He anxiously climbed the stairs.

She was there at her door. She looked hauntingly similar to they way she looked on that fateful day when he had stolen his fathers gun and left their home, and her life, for good.


The fateful day begun when he caught his sister with a set of recent needle tracks on her arm. She had been careful to wear long sleeved shirt for the past two weeks, but he had caught a glimpse of her arm anyway. “What the hell is this?” he shouted, “Who the fuck hooked you up? Was it Jimmy? Don’t you know what he’s going to do to you? You’ll be selling yourself on the street!” All she could do was blankly stare, completely stoned.

He knew where his father kept his gun. Every night he would get drunk and wave the gun around while watching TV, raving inanely. He fished it out of the dresser drawer, shoved it into his jeans and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door as he left.

Now, he was seeing her again. She was dressed in the same rags, like she was the last surviving hippie, and she had the same sad look in her eyes. Her eyes seemed darker, though, more tired. She gave him a big wet kiss and invited him inside. He followed her to the center of her living room. It was filled with torn, urine soaked furniture and the floor was littered with empty vodka bottles and used syringes.

She walked into the kitchen. “Want some tea?” she asked.

He sat down on the couch “Yeah, that would be great.”

After filling two chipped and stained mugs with tea brewed from several well-used bags, she joined him on the couch. Then she looked at him with her characteristic twisted, sarcastic grin.

“So, I heard you got the treatment. Did they fuck with your head, make you a retard?”

He looked down at his cup. “Not really,” he began, “ they tell me that if anything happens to make me mad, I won’t even notice it. It works, it really does. I’m a better person now.”

She laughed. “Really? Lets try it out then.” she said, then leaned over and spit in his face.

His face felt wet, he knew something just happened, but he didn’t know what it was.

“This is rich. Big mean Gene, a fucking pussy. How was prison, asshole? Were you someone’s girlfriend? Did you notice that?”

He shook his head, confused. “I don’t know what…” then he trailed off.

Then, he heard someone open and then kick the door shut behind him. He went visibly pale as he turned and recognized two members of his old street gang.

“Sorry, honey, but I needed a fix.” She said with a shrug, and then she left the room.

Blade was tall and wiry and the t-shirt he wore revealed deep needle tracks on his arm. His deeply sunk eyes glared at him with a cold rage and his mouth was twisted in a spiteful scowl. He always kept his hands in the pockets of his jeans to conceal the fact that he was missing his left thumb.

Brick was the size of a truck. He was heavy set and was all muscle. His hair was shaved roughly off and his beard had been growing for years. He made no attempt to conceal his hollow eye socket. The shock effect could make his enemies’ blood run cold

Gene was missing his left index finger. The initiation rites of the gang required new members to remove some visible part of their bodies while the others watched and cheered.

His former friends approached, then he grew dizzy and his vision blurred, he blinked and he was lying outside of the apartment building. Someone was pulling off his jacket and someone else was taking his shoes. He tasted the blood streaming out of his nose and lip, and he could barely see through his black,

swollen eyes. He struggled to his feet and found that he didn’t have any broken bones, just bumps and bruises from being thrown down a flight of stairs. Then he staggered down the street. He heard the voices of those he passed. He didn’t know what they were saying, so it was probably bad. All he heard was their tones of spite and of fear.

The crowds, the incessant noise, the carbon monoxide pouring out of streams of cars, they all pounded on his mind like a jackhammer. The open space was terrifying, he had become accustomed to the safety of the cozy prison walls. After a few blocks, he slipped and fell in a pool of vomit. The people around him started laughing, someone was saying something the others found funny, but he was blocked from hearing what it was.

It was then he made up his mind what he was going to do. The police station was a few blocks away. He had been inside there often enough to know the way. He felt dizzy as he climbed the front stairs of the precinct. He steadied himself on the railing, took a deep breath and entered.

The reception area was packed with prostitutes waiting for their pimps to arrive with bail money, victims of crimes ranging from theft to sexual assault and off duty cops coming off their shifts. On either side of the entrance, two cops stood guard, keenly watching for any trouble. He turned and approached them.

“I ‘d like to turn myself in. I need to go back to prison. I can’t hack things out here.” He bluntly stated.

The cops smirked at one another. “What have you done?” one of them asked.

“Nothing, but if I stay out here I’ll die.”

They laughed. “Sorry buddy, we can only arrest you if you’ve committed a crime.” The other said.

“What if I called you a pig, will you arrest me then?”

“No, but we might kick the crap out of you, now beat it!”

“It’s the treatment, turns them into retards.” One said to the other as Gene turned and left.

‘Okay,’ he thought to himself, ’if they want a crime, I’ll damn well give them a crime.’

It seems incredible, but it was almost half a year before there was a knock on the door of his rented room. It was the middle of the night and the only light was from his stolen laptop, the tool of his illicit trade, tied to the Internet through the broadband access of a nearby office tower. He had been patently obvious in his scams, leaving a clearly marked trail all over the Internet. The money was rolling in and as of yet he hadn’t been caught. Finally he decided he had to connect all the dots for them by sending the police an anonymous tip on his own activities.

The money meant nothing to him. He still found life outside the prison unbearable. The everyday humiliations were constantly compounded by robberies and assaults, against which he had no defense. He may have been incapable of a violent crime, but he did know how to lie, a talent that came in handy.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he answered the door to greet the police detectives. He even had a bag packed, ready to go.

It wasn’t long before he was before a judge and entered a guilty plea for fraud and grand larceny. It was quick and painless. He was sentenced to ten years, with no parole for five. Once the paperwork was done, he was shipped in shackles back to prison.

He was taken aside from the other prisoners in the intake and processing area by two guards. They led him out into the corridor, and then grabbed him. They were trained in methods to restrain and hold violent inmates, which always made him feel completely helpless. He couldn’t put up a fight even if he was still capable of resistance. They threw him on a gurney and tightly strapped him down.

“Hey, I’ve already had the treatment, I don’t need another one.” He protested as they rolled him down the hall. The guards said nothing.

Soon he was back in the same operating room he had entered years ago. There were the same people watching and taking notes from above, there were the same assistants busy adjusting pieces of high tech equipment, and there was a man in a surgical mask towering over him. Even his voice sounded the same.

“Some time ago, we made history when we developed a form of psychosurgery that has successfully rehabilitated thousands of brutal criminals. Since then, we were alarmed to notice that, even though there was a sharp drop in violent crime, there was a significant increase in the overall crime rate.

“We then turned our attention to the problem of fraud. We came to conclude that the answer to this problem lies in the function of the two brain hemispheres. The left hemisphere is responsible for recalling factual information from the memory and expressing it in words. The right brain serves the purpose of creative thought, in others words, composing believable falsehoods.

“ We believe that if we disconnect all neural pathways joining the two hemispheres, we can render an individual incapable of saying anything but the truth.”

This sounded insane even to Gene.

“There may be some secondary damage involved.” The surgeon continued, “ The subject may be paralyzed on the left side of his body, and he may experience a significant loss of mental capacity, but I believe that he will totally rehabilitated, and that is all that matters.”

The metal jig was fastened around his skull, an IV was inserted in his arm, and he quickly lost consciousness.

His sister had done well for herself. What happened to Gene had scared her into cleaning up her act. She was off the heroin and she was supporting herself and Gene with the meager salary she took home from her job as a cleaner.

Gene was sent hope when the hospital closed down the floor that the workers nicknamed the Mitchell Ward. Mitchell was the name of the doctor that performed the experiments on Gene and many other subjects. The ward housed most of the doctor’s victims.

Gene was confined to a wheelchair. He was incapable of reading, writing, talking or understanding speech. His left side was paralyzed, and his right suffered from uncontrollable tremors. His sister had to spoon feed him, dress him and wash him. She even had to wipe his ass. He had to drug him every night she worked so that he would sleep while she was at work. When she got home every morning she caught two, maybe three hours sleep, and then spent the rest of the day caring for her brother.

The stress and the exhaustion were wearing her down. She was on the verge of losing her job. When she came home that night, she began to think of the unthinkable. It wasn’t really her brother lying in the bed and drooling, it was an empty shell housing a dying mind. She could only imagine how it felt to be stuck in a body that won’t work. She went to the kitchen and fished her gun out of a drawer, and then walked into Gene’s room.

At the crack of dawn, a gunshot echoed through the halls of her apartment building.
















.

Necessary Force

The rusty old Pontiac made grinding sounds whenever his mother changed gears. The shock absorbers were so ancient that every bump on the pavement jarred the two occupants like they were on a funhouse ride. This particular ride, however, was no fun at all.

Her passenger was her son, a man in his late twenties His hands and hair had gone unwashed for weeks. His stained, smelly trousers had a tear running all the way up his right leg. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot from many nights without sleep. He was wearing only one shoe and had mismatched socks. .

He had stopped taking his medication, like he had many times before. His condition had improved in the past few months, so he had decided he didn’t need them anymore. His mother had witnessed her son walking in this endless circle for many, many years. Every time, she would spend sleepless nights worrying that he might become suicidal, or worse. The first sign of trouble was the ranting and raving.

“Think about it, what if the pills don’t correct any imbalance? What if they are nothing but an addictive substance? That way they can control us by controlling the supply. I’m not going to be a patsy again; I’m going cold turkey. Even now, the voices are coming back. As soon as I can hear them clearly they will tell me what do. The voices are my spirit guides, they keep me in touch with God. No shrink is going to stop this now; I’m going all the way.”

Spittle flew as he spoke. It was late in the afternoon and he had been talking like this for hours. It had already become background noise to his mother, who was parking the car in the lot of a local mall. This was her shopping day, and he had insisted on coming along for the ride.

Neither of them noticed a young man approaching them as they stepped out of the car. He was at tall black teenager with a hood concealing most of his face and the standard baggy pants of a gangster rapper. The assailant grabbed his mother by the hair and held a gun to her head.

Her son acted instinctively, with the insane strength of someone who’s mother was in danger. He reached up a twisted the gun out of his hand, and then, using an arm lock for leverage, slammed him into the car. He then repeatedly slammed the door against his head until he went limp and collapsed on the asphalt. A pool of blood quickly collected around his head.

Our society has always had a double standard regarding aggression. They tell us that some things are worth fighting for, that we should stand up for ourselves and that we shouldn’t take crap from anyone. They encourage us to fight, but God help us if we do. The kind of violence seen now on TV and in video games has gradually become more intense and dangerous. Any fight that occurs that way in real life inevitably ends with one of the combatants in prison and the other in a body bag.

Even if someone is only defending himself, there are always questions to answer, and criminal charges can be laid if he used any more than necessary force. This was what he faced now; a formal hearing to determine if he needed to kill his mother’s attacker.

It was determined early in the proceedings that his presence was very disruptive to the hearing, so he was led into a waiting area until such a time he would be called upon to testify. He was taking his medication again, and was mortified by the memory of his recent behaviour. He appeared to be a changed man. He was clean and well groomed. He wore black clothes out of respect for the deceased.

There were many people milling around, most of them were complete strangers. He could catch snippets of conversions: “ …it was racially motivated…” “ …a danger to himself or others…” None of it sounded good.

Meanwhile, in the courtroom, the family of the teenager were having histrionics over his death. Some of this talk was making its way into the waiting area, making him very uneasy. Then, a young woman in a batik dress and wearing beads entered the room with a guitar and began to play a folksy version of “Ebony and Ivory”. Then someone forced his way into the room with a video camera and stuck it in his face. “How long have you been insane?” the investigative journalist asked before being dragged out by one of the guards.

Finally, he was called to the stand. When he was led into the packed courtroom loud insults and threats erupted while the judge pounded his gravel and demanded order. As he took the stand, he searched the crowd for his mother, and saw instead a middle aged black woman weeping on her husband’s shoulder, who was eying him with daggers.

After he was sworn in, the DA, a lean hungry man in a blue suit and a red tie began his attack. “In the statement you made to the police, you claim that Mr. Williams was carrying a gun, and that he threatened your mother.” He nodded. “Then, how do you explain the fact that there was no gun recovered at the scene?” His eyes grew wide and he squirmed in his seat. “ It’s the conspiracy” he began. “They’ve been after me for years.”

The DA then picked up a stack of paper from the table and handed it to him. “Do you know what this is?” He looked down at it. “Yes. It’s a story I wrote called Necessary Force.” “Can you read the highlighted section to the court?”

He started reading paragraphs five and six from the manuscript. “ Neither of them noticed a young man approaching them as they stepped out of the car. He was at tall black teenager with a hood concealing most of his face and the standard baggy pants of a gangster rapper. The assailant grabbed his mother by the hair and held a gun to her head.”

“Her son acted instinctively, with the insane strength of someone who’s mother is in danger. He reached up a twisted the gun out of his hand, and then using an arm lock for leverage, slammed him into the car. He then repeatedly slammed the door against his head until he went limp and collapsed on the asphalt. A pool of blood quickly collected around his head.”

“How can you explain how the attack you described to the officers who arrived at the scene is exactly the same as a story you wrote two weeks ago?”

“I get these flashes” he replied. “I saw this in a dream and wrote it down.”

“Did you find it significant that the assailant in the dream was African- American?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered, I just wrote down what I dreamt.”

‘Yes, but you didn’t dream that no gun was found at the scene, and that your mother has testified that she never saw a gun.”

Things only got worse for him after that. His legal aid defence cited diminished capacity, so the judge sent him to the State Hospital for evaluation and care. Everyone went home and the media circus that had gathered for the hearing scattered back into the woodwork. Everything seemed to be over, except for one man who still had his doubts.

He was the police detective who was first at the scene and took the statement. He and his partner visited the home of Mrs. Carmichael, the young man’s mother. When she answered the door, they were invited into her modest bungalow where she had lived for many years alone. The detective said that had more questions that needed answering, which left her perplexed

“I don’t understand officer,” she asked over a cup of tea. “I thought the case was closed.”

“I thought so too, but then I decided to read the rest of your son’s manuscript, something nobody else bothered to do. Tell me, do you know how it ends?”

‘No, I found the first page more than enough. It was too disturbing to read, even before the attack.”

He leaned forward and looked her directly in the eye. “Mrs. Carmichael, where is the gun? In the story, it turns out that you took and hid the gun before we arrived at the scene.”

She set her teacup down and stood up, looking out of her picture window. The late afternoon sun shone on a face that looked desperately tired. “My son is ill, Detective. He has been that way since he was teenager. He hears voices, he thinks the government is after him, he behaves like a lunatic in public. It was bad, even before my husband’s death, and now it is simply impossible to care for him.”

“He needed to be hospitalized, but the institution just turns him away, they say he isn’t dangerous, so they can’t commit him against his will. Now he is in hospital, and getting the care he needs. That is all I have to say. Will that be all, officer?”

He pondered what she said for a moment. She hadn’t admitted to anything, and she couldn’t be charged with obstruction based solely on a prophetic short story. In a way, he couldn’t blame her for what she did.

He had seen many mentally ill people in his line of work and felt powerless to help them. He remembered one encounter quite vividly. It was in the hours before dawn when they received a call about a “crazy person” outside of an all night coffee shop. When they arrived he was sitting on a rock next to the shops parking lot, he was rocking back and forth violently and shouting out nonsense at the top of his lungs. When he saw the officers approaching, he curled up in ball and shrieked. “I’m not going back! I’m not going back”

It never surprised him that most mentally ill people would rather live on the street than in a state-run hospital, it made perfect sense to anyone who had been there, but sometimes the only choice they had was between the institution and a holding cell. Hospitals were shutting down wards and turning away people by the droves, so the task fell upon them that night to bring another lost soul downtown, where at least he would be safe.

He was completely co-operative and went with them without a fight. When he was led to the cell he and said, “ Thank you for being nice.” He would see him on his round many times again and each time he would smile and nod. Then came the fateful night when he saw the poor mans charred corpse in a body bag. A group of young people from the suburbs had doused him in gasoline and set him alight.

He rose to his feet and asked. “I understand what you’re saying. I know what you’re going through, but are you sure you want it to be this way?”

“I’m sorry.” She replied. “This is the only way.”

“All right. I guess we are finished here.” He and his partner began to leave.

“One more thing,” she asked at the door, “How does the story end?”

“It ends like this ma’am, goodbye.”

DIVIDED

A divided city
A divided mind
Is told to go left
Then told to go right
So it walks in circles
All through the night
A divided city
A divided mind
Where the blind can hear
Where the deaf have sight
Being told to sleep
Then told to fight
Walking in circles
Throughout the night
And so it shall be be
If we do as we're told
To be paid in pure gold
For that which we sold
To the left, to the right
Walking in circles
Night after night.
A divided city
A divided mind

The following three poems were a part of a spoken word performance I made recently at a public event:

THE DENIAL

Some one who looks from the outside in
Then takes a step back and looks again
Can defeat the denial of what is wrong
The denial of things
That, if we could only see
We would take a step back
As see things as they are
Not what we wish to see
And they could see us
As we truly are
And not what they wish us to be

LIVE IT DOWN

I can’t leave town
I have to live it down
They have me all wrong
They won’t hear this song
Their minds are closed
Have to live it down
This is my town
It’s where I have to stay
No matter what they say
If I am to be judged
Make it for what I truly am
So I can do what I can
To live it down
With my feet on the ground
So I say around
Squirming in my seat
AS they spit at my feet
This is the only place I know
I have nowhere else to go
So I stay here in town
So I can live it down
I know I can live it down

DATA DECONSTRUCTION

Do I need a pie chart
To explain my art?
Do I need a graph
To show the times I cry
Cross-referenced
With the times I laugh?
How much of my live
Has to be carved away
With Orcam’s razor knife?
You just sit and smile and nod
So they will feel like
They’ve known you all their life
But when they’re finally gone
You compose your notes
What is right, what is wrong
But how can you measure
The brilliance of a song?
So instead you play along
You think we’re weak
You think you’re strong
So this is for your benefit
It isn’t for mine
But now its four o clock
And we’re all out of time.

JUST A LITTLE PRICK

Just a little prick
And you won’t be feeling sick
If you are in pain
Here comes the Novocain
We will start by pulling teeth
Then we find out what’s beneath

He’s just a little prick
He really makes me sick
Numbing up my brain
Just like Novocain

Just a little prick
And the label will stick
An imbalance in the brain
Is driving you insane
Causing no end of grief
Just like pulling teeth

He’s just a little prick
Acting like a dick
In a way we are the same
So perfect and so lame
But it’s my belief
That we’re the comedy relief

PSYCHOLOGICAL APOCALYPSE

Panic sets in. My breathing is rapid and shallow, I can barely breathe. Since I have just sucked god-knows-what into my lungs, this can be extremely painful. The people around me find my distress funny. They must be reading my mind, and find something amusing about my psychosis. I need to leave this place, so I can weather this storm alone, but they say I am in no condition to go anywhere. A half an hour nightmare bus ride and I could be home, but instead I am trapped for hours with these sadistic monsters.

We I final escape and make it home, I throw myself on my bed, but I cannot sleep. I flop around on my mattress like a landed fish on a boat. The wrinkles on my sheet feel like razors on my flesh. I glance fearfully towards the window; I sense someone is watching me. I bury my face against the pillow holding my breath, then look towards the window again. Every mistake and misdeed of my past then comes to visit; each memory causes me physical pain, like a devil’s pitchfork. It is hours before I sleep.

I dream of a legion of demented doctors, who have reduced us to useless sacks of meat, having seizures and orgasms in response to any external stimulation. We are all better off without our frontal lobes, we can gibber and drool and shit whenever we like. Liberated as we all are from the tyranny of our mutated higher brains, we can truly be happy. Why do people see a lobotomy as a fate worse than death? It is because our frontal lobes tell us so, because they do not want to lose the power they have over us.

Isn’t the human race just a bunch of mutant primates with brains too big for our own good? As soon as this planet is so toxic that there is no place to shit, we will all die, choking on our own bile.

And who is to say whether our frontal lobes are dead. Maybe they keep on chattering away in the darkness, powerless to prolong our misery.

Modern Day Judas

On the afternoon the summons from the president arrived, he was on the fifth beer of the day, and in his backyard shooting cans off his neighbor’s fence with one of his many rifles. A black sedan rolled across the gravel of his driveway and disgorged two black-clad secret service agents.

Soon, he was on his way to Washington D.C. His two chaperones were tight lipped about why the president wanted to see him, he couldn’t even find out their names. Soon he was usher into the oval office, where he sat and waited, staring up at the presidential seal and American flag. He squirmed in the seat for half an hour before the president entered. He stood and gave his commander-in-chief a smart salute.

“As you were. “ he said with an impatient wave of his hand. He returned to his seat, but the president remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back and staring out of the window at Capital Hill.

“I assume you are curious about why I have brought you here. Tell me, how much do you love your country?”

“With all my heart, sir.” He said with conviction.

“ Good, because if you agree, we will both need to make the ultimate sacrifice for our country from a terrible threat from within. There are dark forces at work, powerful people in the shadows who are conspiring to destroy everything our flag stands for. They have been working against me, blocking me at every turn, and are preparing to move against me even as we speak They have the wealth and the resources to turn this office into that of a puppet dictator. When I am killed, they will make it seem like a suicide, but I have chosen the time and place of my death, and with your help, my death will smoke them out into the open.. You are an expert marksman, are you not?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

The president interrupted him. “ You will return home, there will be an envelope waiting for you, containing plane tickets and instructions on how you will assassinate me. Do you understand?”

He nodded in reply, feeling numb with shock.

“You must tell no-one about this arrangement. You will be blamed for my death, you will be hated and vilified, but if you breath a word of this, ever, all of this will be for nothing. Do I have your silence?”

He nodded again, and then John F. Kennedy rose and shook his hand. “Your country thanks you, Mister Oswald, it has been an honor meeting you.”