And while it is true, that social media and the internet has empowered you, the non media citizenry to be heard, often times it is the media who frames the conversation. You will never be able to talk loudly enough, or eloquently, or even logically enough to compete with our voice. And that makes me very sad. It makes me sad because I know that the media is not your friend. The media has become an all pervasive and invasive parasitical component of human society which at the very apex of its power is solely concerned with exploiting the overly researched, dissected and mapped out nuances of the human condition for its own financial gain. Period. Fear, is our weapon of choice. Period. The bitter medicine we force you to ingest on a daily basis in order to compel you to tune in. We want you tune in because we are trying to sell you things. Products and services, surely, but more than that, we want to sell you opinions, a way of thinking, a way of feeling, and of course, political beliefs, that will propagate the right conditions under which our current economic model of ever increasing prosperity for the those at the top of the pyramid at the expense every one else, can continue to flourish.
Fear, is the oil that fuels this machine. Fear of war, fear of disease, fear of discomfort and change and loss. Fear of scarcity, fear of moral decay, social decay, fear of terrorism, fear of death, but most of all, fear of the other. For all these other fears, are scape goated onto the concept of the other. It's not us, it's them. They are the enemy, they are at fault, they did this to us. Which is infinitely more palpable than the truth. We are the enemy. We are to blame for our own problems.
We want you to fear the other because the other is everyone and anywhere. But the other is just a reflection of yourself. As long as you are afraid, you are unable to see the big picture. While there is fear, there will be racism, and greed, and nationalism, and war. Do not be afraid. Do not listen to them. Do not fear the other. Fear what is malignant in your own self, and defeat it… Do not be afraid.”
Richard than looked up at The Head Honcho who was watching from behind the camera, his face turning heart attack purple. Richard smiled, pulled a thirty two calibre hand gun from his inside jacket pocket, placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The bullet burrowed a path up through his brain and out the top of his skull. Just as the last electrical impulses fired through his bran's synapses and circuitry he realized the word he was looking for.
CHAPTER 27
He was almost free. He could feel it. The illusion was slowly but surely breaking down. Civilization was crumbling around him. His God-mind had begun to manifest the clamour in his heart. Earthquakes, and hurricanes, the slow train wreck of America's political system, the Arab spring, the numerous uprising around the world. It was all the song of his soul finally getting to the chorus and if he just kept on the right track surly he would be free soon.
Everything was falling into place. He had always had faith, always known he had the will to break the illusion. But now things had even begun to surpass his expectations. For instance, the shrink had sent an email to his encrypted box with a single sentence: I did it for you because you have opened my eyes. At first he had no idea what it meant until he switched on the news. It appears he had killed three no-men and signed it with Mister's mark. What did it mean? Was he assimilated? Would the illusion crumble with a million Misters killing a million no-men? Whatever it meant it was a very, very encouraging sign.
With his heart brimming with joy he had taken Cindy for his morning routine and enjoyed himself more than usual. There was less anger this time. Even when she squirmed or didn't feel wet it did little to sour his mood. Normally he would have been very cross about that. But not today. It was a special day, the kind of day that made him wonder if his time amongst the no-men would soon be coming to an end.
After showering he made a sandwich and switched on the television to find more coverage of the shrink's murders. Switching to ANN he found Richard Lansdown on the screen. This was the one who ran the news special on him. The best media coverage he had ever received really. Which is exactly what he needed, the more people knew of him the more fear he injected into the illusion. The more fear in the illusion the closer he came to breaking it. And so while Lansdown was as hopelessly ignorant as every other no-man on earth he had served Mister's purpose and so must be counted as an allied figment. A truer manifestation of himself than most, perhaps. So as a thank you he had visited Mrs. Lansdown. She was a docile little bitty. Her loose skin and fragile creaky gait repulsed him. Killing her felt like gutting and skinning and animal. There was no sport in it at all. But maybe, just maybe, if he was really lucky the pain of loosing her would jolt Lansdown awake causing him to be assimilated the way he apparently done so with the shrink.
The way the newsman was talking was strange in some way. He was not using his usual measured, syllable for syllable kind of droning way that news anchors had. He looked right at the camera, his eyes still and hot with passion, “Do not fear the other. Fear what is malignant in your self and defeat it... Do not be afraid.”
Then in one blindingly surreal moment he pulled out a hand gun and blew his brains out the back of his skull. Mister jumped to his feet, the way one might when his loosing football team makes an interception, his mouth and eyes stretched wide with happy astonishment.
The blood from the news man's skull seemed to hang in the air behind him like a misty crimson ghost. Mister couldn't believe what he was seeing. All these years, all his labour, finally paying off. Two miracles in one day! First then shrink is assimilated now this! He could feel the gates of heaven open somewhere above him, showering down on him inter-dimensional love and acceptance. It was all happening. He was passing the test.
Then the screen went suddenly black and a few moments later a commercial for a deep power oxy cleaner came on and Mister watched it too amused to even laugh, dazzled by God's sense of humour, honoured that he would share this inside joke with him. They are going to need the deep cleaning power of oxy to clean all that blood from their silly little news set aren't they Lord?
“Thank you,” he whispered to God though he knew he didn't have to. He knew that He saw his heart. Could hear the longing of his soul to be with Him in his kingdom.
This was a very, very special day and it just so happened there was a very, very special little project he had been allowing to mature, like a fine wine and now it seemed like it was time to pop the cork. Considering how much ground he had covered as of late he deserved to treat himself.
***
Greg woke up from his sleep with the now familiar torment of his bodily functions fighting to be released. He held out as long as he could, though what did it matter anymore? He had already urinated and defecated into his own pants several times and had been sitting in it so long he could no longer even smell it.
He began to cry as the warmness of his piss slowly leaked from him and ran down his legs.
“Are you okay? He heard Brad ask after sometime, but he just continued to cry. He didn't want to cry, he wanted to be strong at least for Cindy and the boy but he couldn't hold back the torrent of disparity in his heart any longer. Before long his face and neck was just as wet as his bottom half.
How long? How much longer could he possibly keep them? What did he want with him? The girl sounded young and pretty, so her he understood. Even the boy because he said Mister was using him to make his father do something but why him and Brad?
Sara was dead. He knew it in his heart. His children were gone. What would he be even going back to if he ever did escape?
“Greg, stop crying,” Brad whispered over top of his sobbing. “Stop it. Stop crying.”
“Leave me alone,” Greg spat out pitifully.
“No. No stop crying I need to talk with you.”
Cindy and Charlie listened with numb detachment.
“I need to talk to you,” Brad insisted but Greg couldn't plug up the outpouring of his grief. He didn't even have the strength to try. So brad just let him cry it out until he had nothing
left. Then when he was finally done, he gave him some time; time to collect himself, time to think.
“We're getting out of here Greg,” he said.
Nobody responded. Hope had its price and they no longer could pay it.
“Guys? Did you hear me? We're getting out of here.... Cindy?”
“Okay Brad, we're getting out of here,” Cindy played along her voice flat.
“I got one of my hands loose,” Brad blurted out and the room pressurized with silence. “Did you hear me? My hand is loose.”
“Are you sure,” Greg finally said, already starting to sound like his old self again, his voice steady and deep.
“Of course, I'm sure. Hang on, let me take off my blindfold.”
“Be careful!” Cindy warned. “The cameras.”
“Okay. Okay, I can see you.”
Greg could feel that persistent nagging sense of hope begin to tug at his heart again.
“Greg, you're wearing pajama pants. Red ones. And a white t-shirt. Cindy, you're wearing a night gown, long socks with stripes, The kid is wearing sweat pants.
“Holy shit. You're telling the truth,” Cindy gasped. “Can you get your other hand free?”
“I I think... Yeah I can. But what if he's watching?”
“If he's watching he would already be down here,” Greg said.
“He's right,” Cindy agreed.
Charlie listened to them fight. He had nothing to add and it hurt to talk anyways so he just waited and hoped.
“I don't, I don't know. Maybe... maybe we should figure out if it's day or night first?”
“What?! Why?” Greg asked.
“Because if it's night time he's probably sleeping.”
“We don't know that. Cindy is right. If he was watching he'd already be down here. Can you get out of your chair?”
Brad responded by beginning to hyperventilate.
“Listen, Brad. This is not the time to loose our shit buddy. You hear me? Hold it together. Can you get out of your chair?”
“No, no.” I can't Brad wheezed.
“Yes. Yes, you can. If you got your hand free you can get the rest of you free too. How did you do it?”
The gasping was becoming so sharp that Greg started to worry Brad was having a heart attack. Wouldn't that be a big fucking laugh?
“I – Don't know,” Brad finally said. “I've been trying to get it loose for days. I didn't think I actually would.”
“Okay listen,” Greg said steady and calm. “I want you to untie yourself than come over here and untie me.”
“I can't. He – He will hurt us.”
“He's already hurting us!” Greg screamed unable to bottle up the tumour of frustration growing in the pit of his stomach.
“Shhh! Don't ruin this!” Cindy hissed.
“Brad, this may be our only chance to get out of here. Don't you want to at least try?... Do you want to die a coward?”
Then the room slipped back into the dark silence that had been their home over the last several weeks.
“Okay. Okay. I'll do it.”
A lightning strike of adrenaline surged through Greg's body as he waited and listened to Brad removing his restraints.
“I'm going to free Cindy and the boy first,” Brad said.
“No! No me first. I can help you fight him if he comes back.”
“No, they're the weakest. They're just kids. We need to protect them.”
Greg wanted to argue further but that would just slow him down so he swallowed his rage and waited. He could hear Brad get up from his chair and walk over to Cindy's. It was happening. It was actually happening. He found he was hyperventilating now, the anticipation causing his body to shake. He was almost free. He was going to fucking kill him. He was going to find Mister and tear out his throat with his fucking teeth if need be.
“No, no, no, no, no,” Cindy cried. “ No, no, no, no. You monster! You monster!”
Mister must have returned but Greg hadn't heard the door and why was Brad silent? Was he laying on the floor with his throat slit dying at his feet?”
Then he felt a hand on his blind fold. It was Brad, he said:
“Don't worry Buddy. We're free. We're going to be free.”
The blindfold was removed. The light was painful and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust when they did it was Mister's face snarling down at him. His Ghoulish white face contorted by sinister and cruel satisfaction. When he spoke Greg realized that Mister sounded exactly like Brad.
“Suuuuuuurpiiiiise!” Mister sang and plunged a knife into his throat.
CHAPTER 28
It was easy to steal a van. Just like some of the boys in juvenile hall said it would be. He simply threw a spark plug at the window which easily and relatively quietly shattered the window for reasons he didn't understand. Then once inside he pried back the plastic ring around the ignition, found the little metal piece on the column inside and turned it over with vice grips. Bango bingo.
He had never driven before but he wasn't scared. The streets were all but empty at four in the morning when he decided to take it and besides he wasn't going to take it far. Just park it somewhere else, somewhere hidden, until the next day.
Simon found the perfect spot in the back of a grocery story beside of row of trees with droopy branches that hung over from the other side of a fence and would provide nice shade from the morning heat.
He climbed in the back and rifled through the bags of things stuff of he bought at the corner store. Some comic books. Action comics. They were his favourite and so he assumed if he made a friend it might be his too. He also got some baseball cards, which he didn't care about, but again, his new friend might. In addition he had bought about twenty chocolate bars. He knew he would eat a bunch himself because they were his new favourite thing. He hadn't had chocolate for nearly ten years and he was trying to make up for lost time.
He took off his windbreaker and bunched it up ball for a pillow. Laying down he peeled open his snickers diner and choose one of the comic books at random. He skimmed through it, holding the chocolate bar with his teeth as he turned the pages. He liked to look at all the picture first and then he would go back and read it from the beginning. The villain was an alien woman with massive breasts and long red hair and was very, very attractive despite her lime green skin. He could feel a tightening in his pants and without really thinking about he reached down and unbuttoned his jeans. It wasn't the first time of course, but it had been a very, very long time and he couldn't resist.
With his free hand he thumbed through the pages looking for a better picture of the alien woman but before long he found himself thinking about things he didn't want to think about. Bad things. No sooner did he finish then the guilt came crashing down on him in heavy miserable waves.
“No!” He screamed slapping his face over and over and over. “It's not fucking fair!” He slapped his face and punched his own thighs until the pain was unbearable. He fell down in the fetal position and stared at a random point on the floor of the van and waiting for the thumping of his heart to slow.
He was so, so tired. Not just in the sense that he needed sleep, but tired in his soul. Tired of struggling, tired of being him. Tired of this life. He never asked for it. He didn't get a choice, so whatever become of him and whatever he did, wasn't his fault in the end. It was God's. If there was a God. These things that happened to him in his life weren't his doing. And if he had a choice between going through what he went through, abandonment and fear and constant ridicule. Being rapped by fucking priests, or never being born at all... well that was easy. Because nothing, nothing ever came close to being good enough to make all the bad worth it. So if the world was unfair to him, who cares if he's unfair back? Maybe that was the only measure of justice he could ever have for himself.
The emotional outburst left him feeling week and sleepy. He found himself thinking of Johnny again and wondering where he was now. Laying on his side in that fragile state somewhere between waking and sleepi
ng he imagined seeing Johnny now all grown up. He probably just went by 'John' now. Maybe he was even married with a little child. Simon bet he was a big handsome guy. A guy's guy. He imagined running into him on the street. There would be an awkward moment, as they double taked on each other passing by.
'Simon? Is that you? Oh my God, Simon?!'
And they would hug and pat each other on the back and then hug again.
'How the hell are you?' He would ask. And of course Simon would have to lie.
“I'm doing great. Never been better,” and then he would add, 'how are you? You got so tall man.'
“I'm great. I got married last June. Hey, you know what? You should come over for diner tonight. I would love for you to meet my wife Jenny.'
That would be nice. That would be really great.
He closed his eyes and thought about Johnny, and comic books and his mother. Anything besides what he was going to do the next day.
Simon pulled the van out onto the road, enjoying the feeling of being so high up in the seat. Being in control of such a large machine made him feel grown up, powerful. He understood now what he had been missing all these years. He had felt that sudden recognition of things he had missed out on without even knowing it many times since being released from the hall. It was always the unexpected things.
He took a left onto and Maple Drive wondering, unworried if the police were already looking for the van. In the back of his mind, deep down, he knew he wasn't worried because he was half hoping the police would catch him before he did what he was about to do. But anyways, it didn't have to be bad. Not that bad.
At three o clock the bells to Saint Augustan catholic school rang and a parade of liberated children hurried out the doors to get home to their families or play with their friends. Very few children lingered behind. A small group of boys and girls talked by the swing set next to baseball diamond and two boys were, he thought, playing with marbles at the side of the school.
Horror Becomes Me Page 13