Right when I’m about to turn off the bulldozer, I glance at the dash-mounted touch-screen HD satellite TV. Before I can turn it off, I see one of those commercials advertising (black) kids starving to death and dying of easily prevented diseases like malaria. What are they selling? I can’t figure it out. Nobody is ever going to help those (black) kids, so why do they keep trying to make us feel bad about it? Forget it. I’m not going to feel bad. They’re not my (black) kids. You know what they say a mosquito net costs? Ten dollars. Is it a designer mosquito net? Is it a gold mosquito net? Ten dollars is way too much. If the mosquito net cost a dollar, that’d be different. (Nine dollars.) For the price of one of their mosquito nets, you could get ten of my reasonably priced mosquito nets. (I’m not actually offering one-dollar mosquito nets. I’m just saying.)
The huge doors of my castle are opened and Baby Doll15 and I sweep inside. The enormous scope of the structure is easier to see from within. The open space is oppressive. The ceilings are so vaulted and the rooms are so massive, you feel insignificant. It doesn’t matter where you turn, or how often. It’s always dizzying. Whether you look up, stumble to a wall, or fall to the ground, all you find is stone. The brightly lit priceless works of art hanging by their necks everywhere are no cause for celebration. The stained-glass windows depicting religious scenes are always dark in the night.
“Who are they?” gasps Baby Doll15, noticing a group of beautiful girls gathered in a room just off the main entrance. “They’re gorgeous.”
It’s first thing in the morning and, gathered in a room just off the main entrance, a group of beautiful girls shines in chandelier and candlelight, drinking red wine from big crystal goblets.
“Some of my hot young female followers,” I answer, guiding Baby Doll15 by the arm.
“Why are they dressed like schoolgirls?”
“Because they’re schoolgirls.”
“We don’t wear uniforms at our school.”
“They go to a school where they do,” I sigh. “Don’t make things so complicated, Baby Doll15.”
“I didn’t know I was.”
“None of us ever did.”
“I’m not sure I . . .” She’s quick-walking in her high heels, trying to keep up with me. “Never mind.”
I (inadvertently) paid attention to one of those starving kid commercials the other day. (I couldn’t find the remote, nor could I reach the screen to touch it. Are we ever going to get thought-screen TV?) The (white) announcer said 28,000 (black) kids starve to death every day. Every day! That’s criminal! What kind of monsters (zombies) are having kids in barren wastelands devoid of the barest necessities, namely drinking water, readily available nutritious food, proper waste disposal, shelter, electricity, education, clothing, and (lots and lots of) birth control? It’s an outrage. The monsters (zombies) must be stopped!
But it seems to me, at the rate the (black) kids are starving to death, (thankfully) they’ll all be dead soon. They’ll certainly be dead before competition among (not really) equals acting in a (not really) mutually beneficial manner can bring down the price of mosquito nets from ten dollars to one, the price at which (I still won’t donate, but I’ll at least think) it is reasonable. Unfortunately, some of the starving (black) kids will (stubbornly) cling to life, so I set my (staggering) intellect to the problem that has stumped (none of) the greatest minds of my generation. (The greatest minds of my generation are playing MMORPGs.)
I lead Baby Doll15 up one of the three steep stone staircases ascending from the foyer. At the top, I pull her down a brightly lit stone corridor. Her stilettos click. The clicks echo.
Initially, I’d hoped to solve the problem of starving (black) children by killing them all, along with their zombie parents, but my team of high-powered attorneys advised me against it. They said that’s “genocide.” “Genocide is wrong,” they said, “not because you’re killing a whole bunch of people, but because you’re discriminating against the people you’re killing.” They reminded me of Hitler. (They didn’t look like Hitler or anything; they didn’t have the moustache; they just said, “Remember Hitler?”) “Hitler is so reviled,” they explained, “because he killed Jews almost exclusively, and he did it with dispassionate efficiency. Stalin killed far more people, but he didn’t discriminate against ethnic or religious groups, and he wasn’t very well-organized, so what he did was okay.” Because the starving (black) children are almost exclusively African-African (black), my lawyers encouraged me not to kill them all because I’d (probably) be reviled. I said I didn’t have a problem with that. They said killing them would be expensive. I had a problem with that. I like being rich. I plan to stay that way.
In my castle, up the stairs, down the hall, I throw open the doors on a huge stone bedroom. The bed is gigantic and covered with furs and skins. It’s surrounded by dozens of thick white candles standing on twisted, curved, and bent wrought-gold stands. The candles have been lit even though there’s an inferno raging in the fireplace that’s big enough for you to walk in if you crouch down a little, and if you’ve got nothing against being burned horribly. A big crystal chandelier hangs, lighted, between the fireplace and the bed and its candles. (The crystal chandelier isn’t in the way or anything. It hangs over our heads.) The grey stone walls glow golden yellow-white but cold.
“It’s really bright in here,” says Baby Doll15, concerned.
“I like to see what I’m doing.” I take off my pirated Pope pirate hat and spin it away. I reach to the back of my neck, undo my ceremonial robe, and I let it slip to the floor. Now I’m down to my guns and my pirate outfit: breeches and loose-fitting white linen shirt. Eyeing Baby Doll15 and dancing sexily, I start taking off the guns and dropping them seductively on the floor.
After I dropped the idea of genocide, I hoped to solve the problem of the starving (black) children by waiting until climate change raised the sea level, flooding lowlying regions around the world, displacing (and ultimately killing through malnutrition and clashes over aid) millions of (poor light brown) people (who refuse to move inland because they like being close to the beach). Then the (scant) resources directed to those (poor light brown) people could be re-routed to help the (starving black) children of the monsters (zombies). I had to dismiss this (great) idea because climate change is moving at a frustratingly slow pace (for my purposes). Besides, the (scant) resources directed to help those (poor light brown) people amounts to little more than can be pirated by the first bureaucrat responsible for distributing them. (That pirate isn’t letting his or her kids starve to death! No, sir or ma’am!) On a related side note, happily, it’s already too late to stop climate change, but the scientists I’m employing to find ways to speed it up have come up with nothing better than to continue polluting, or to pollute more, they said, if that’s at all possible. Of course it’s possible to pollute more! I’m currently investing heavily in coal-powered plants in Second and Third World countries! I’m also investing heavily in clean American alternatives, and American defence companies, for when we Americans, inevitably, declare war on those who’re trying to pollute as much as we do or as much as we used to. I’ve also got some giant hair driers pointed at what remains of the ice shelf, but that’s mostly for show.
“What are you doing?” asks Baby Doll15, horrified.
“Don’t worry.” I’m doing a striptease and dropping handguns. “The safeties are on.”
“Look. I’m kind of nervous about all this. I don’t know if I can just, you know, get to it.”
“I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? You want to get wasted first.” I look around for a bell to ring, or a button to push, something, anything I can use to get someone’s attention so Baby Doll15 can get booze. I consider clapping my hands twice or snapping my fingers, but only jerks clap their hands twice or snap their fingers when they’re rich and they want something, and even though I’m a jerk and proud of it, I don’t always act like a jerk, because sometimes you’ve got to keep the jerkhood in check; otherwise, the tru
ly inspired moments of jerkery go unnoticed, blending in with all-too-many lesser acts of jerkism. “Hey!” I finally yell. “Can we get some alcohol in here or what?”
“I don’t want anything to drink,” says Baby Doll15, with her arms crossed in front of her and with her hands covering her shoulders, uncomfortable.
“Cancel the booze!” I yell. More quietly I say, “Then what do you want?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you could give me a tour?”
“Of my man-junk?” I ask, confused.
“Your abandoned factory,” she says. “I mean, your castle.”
I’m still confused. “You want me to refer to my manjunk as ‘my castle’?”
“No. I want you to give me a tour of your gothic castle.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I walk to the doors and kick them as hard as I can. Remembering they don’t open that way, I pull them and leave the bedroom, heading for the stairs. “Come on.”
Baby Doll15 hurries after me. Her high heels slow her down.
I was slowed by the problems with genocide and climate change, but I’m pleased to say I discovered a way to stop those terrible commercials featuring upsetting images of, and stories about, (black) kids. The solution was inherent to the problem. The commercials advertising (black) kids starving to death, and dying of easily prevented diseases like malaria, weren’t selling anything! That’s bad business! Why waste money advertising despair? It’s one of the few things (white) people don’t want to (intentionally) buy (consciously). But I understood the advertisers’ dilemma. What resources can you plunder from a barren wasteland filled with zombies and starving (black) kids and (black) kids dying of malaria? That’s when it hit me. (Black) kids! To solve the problem of (black) kids starving to death and dying of malaria, someone (not me personally) should sell (black) kids!
When I’m quite a ways out, down the hall, and I’ve left Baby Doll15 far behind, I stop abruptly and quit trying to hide my irritation. “Are you actually toddling right now?” I turn on her angrily. “Do you need a stroller? Do you want me to get you a stroller? Do you want me to push you around in a stroller?”
“I’m sorry,” she squeaks. “These shoes don’t fit well, but they’re so pretty. I stuffed them with paper.” She stops, crosses one leg in front of the other, and leans down. “I’ll just take them off.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I hate feet.” I start heading back to the stairs again. “This is all bedrooms,” I call back to her, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. Still walking, I mutter, “I should have some stupid person make a stupid tour movie of this stupid place so I don’t have to give stupid tours every stupid minute.” When I get back to the staircase, I wait for her, with my arms crossed, tapping my foot, like a gentleman. “Come on, come on,” I call. When she catches up, I take her arm to make sure she doesn’t trip, slip, or fall down the steep stone stairs. At the bottom, I let go of her and make a left. It’s a right from the main entrance. The reason there’s no good set of directions for anything is because it all depends on where you start, and how.
How we (not me personally) go about selling the (black) kids is crucial. Obviously, we shouldn’t sell all the (black) kids. We should leave behind some (black) kids, so we (not me personally) can help them. I’m really optimistic about this plan. There’s a huge (white) market for (black) kids! Okay, yeah. I know what you’re thinking. The (black) kids have bloated bellies and discoloured hair. Who’s going to want them? Well, I’m confident if you give the (black) kids some menial jobs, wait until they get their first paycheques, and sell them a couple of Cokes and a few bags of chips, they’ll be as good as new. Scarred, obviously, by their lives of (unspeakable) suffering, but other than that. . . . And I’m confident thousands and thousands of (white) women would love to adopt a child. Probably not a black one, which is wrong of them, racist, but it doesn’t matter, because beggars can’t be choosers. There’s also a second (sketchier) market that we (not me personally) could explore if the “adoption” idea doesn’t pay sufficient dividends.
On the main floor of my castle, I make my way through rooms empty with art. Next to me, Baby Doll15 gasps. She’s keeping pace with me now. Each of the spacious rooms through which we’re walking would’ve honoured any museum, but the priceless works of art in my castle aren’t hidden behind bullet-proof glass. They aren’t hooked up to alarms. If they’re paintings, sketches, or illuminated manuscripts, they sit on easels. If they’re smaller sculptures, they sit on stands. If they’re bigger works, they stand on their own. Baby Doll15 and I weave our way around them. Most of my statues are outside.
Everything has been damaged here. In the art wing of my castle. A bust has been pushed to the floor and left there. Is the empty stand art now, or is the broken bust? Is any of it art now? Is none of it? Is nothing? A Da Vinci sketch has been hacked up with a knife. Do the angles of the slices have meaning? Does their position relative to what remains of the sketch? Nothing has been taken away. I like the look of ruined things. I find destroyed things, things beyond salvation, the most beautiful of all. Like the world. My followers and I ritually engage in orgies of destruction. Paintings, sculptures, signed first editions. We light them on fire. Have you ever seen a Van Gogh burning? There’s nothing like it. That thick paint melting and dripping. The colours on the floor. What do they represent? Have you ever kicked your leg through a Monet? Punched your fist through a Picasso? Have you ever urinated on a firstedition Hemingway? What a (communist) waste to hang (and kill) these pieces and shelve (forget) these books in (torture chambers called) museums and (graveyards called) libraries where anyone and everyone can see them. For next to nothing. All that work. To distract zombies from their zombie lives. To give them the illusion of escape where there is none, where there can be none. The artist is the enemy. He and she must be destroyed. They are living servants of the undead. They make zombie non-life worth un-living. Zombies deserve to be imprisoned in the prisons they’ve created. They should be disallowed colours, textures, or words in their cells. They should go insane with their insanity.
Baby Doll15 doesn’t ask questions about what’s been destroyed. She takes in everything silently. Either she doesn’t need to know why, she already knows why, or she’s scared to find out. Regardless, she doesn’t criticize my “lack of respect.” She doesn’t sound off on my “wastefulness.” She doesn’t condemn me for depreciating the priceless.
A wise man once said, “It’s fun to do bad things.”
Value is subjective, and through a series of exciting adventures I can’t be bothered to relate here, I became free in the sense that I realized past the point of belief, past the point of knowledge, past the point of being, that I’m neither an object nor a subject, so I can’t objectify anything—art, the world, myself—or subject anything—everything, nothing, what I am, what is within me and without me, in all its various forms and guises—to the faulty judgement of any mind disconnected from the whole, which both is and isn’t, resembling something like the number zero, which exists, in a sense, but represents something that doesn’t, or a black hole (African-American hole), from which all springs, returns, and never leaves to begin with or end.
I can only destroy. Add to the madness.
“Where are we going?” asks Baby Doll15, finally.
“That’s an excellent question.”
Will this path lead me from despair?
Have you ever heaved an ancient piece of Chinese pottery out the window and watched it shatter into the past from which it never came? (It was always made now.) Have you ever seen the pieces? (It was never whole.) Sometimes the mess is for the best. (It was never meant to be. It was actually meant not to be.) It’s too late. Sometimes you need to see for yourself that it’s impossible to put it back the way it was. (It never was the way it was.) Trying is a waste of time. (Time is waste; therefore, trying is a waste of waste.) We all sit idly by while entropy traipses through our disorderly worlds, in shrinking spirals of accelerating chaos. Futurists are historians.
“Do you want to tour the grounds too?” I ask Baby Doll15, still walking through the museum part of my castle.
“I don’t think so,” calls Baby Doll15, falling behind.
“Then I’ll just tell you about it. My castle is lighted in the night, but when we pulled up, maybe you didn’t see its tall thin spires straining to pierce the sky, to let in the black, or to let out the blue. It also has gargoyles. Gargoyles are awesome.”
“I like gargoyles too,” agrees Baby Doll15. She has to almost yell it. Her high heels aren’t clicking behind me anymore. They’re making more distant sounds, like ticks of the second (or third) hand on an analog wristwatch when it’s away from your ears, hanging by its throat at your side.
I stop and wait for her, crossing my arms and shaking my head, patiently. If I were impatient, I’d shoot her. Then she’d hurry up. “I think of my gargoyles as protectors. They guard my castle and serve as warnings to suckers, fools, and little bitches. They’re like my raven. My raven is probably out with my gargoyles right now. Watching over us. I’ve also got a bunch of tortured-looking religious statues all over the grounds. They’re pretty cool. The girls really like them. It’s the idea of eternal love, I guess.”
“Do you?” asks Baby Doll15, finally catching up. She puts her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. “Do you believe in eternal love?”
“No.”
“Well, I do,” she says, tired but defiant.
“Good for you. And no, I don’t want to hear your poems.” I start walking again.
She starts following again. “What are you talking about? I don’t have any poems.”
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