The Card – Rickson Finale

Rickson stared at the damn screen for at least twenty minutes before he shook his fucking head and decided to play with whatever fucking idiot was running this con. He typed, well, henpecked more than anything, and when he was done he was as proud of himself as he ever had been.

MY DEMAND IS FOR THE CITY OF LONDON TO HAVE NO FUCKING CRIME FOR THE NEXT 30 DAYS. NOTHING ILLEGAL AT ALL.

He hit send without thinking about it and went about the real work of the day without giving what he had typed another thought. However, had he been even vaguely observant he would have noticed that the phone had buzzed mere seconds after he had typed up the email and hit send. It was a single line, a single word.

APPROVED

——–

Three weeks later and Rickson was sitting on the porch of his house. There was no noise, no cars going back and forth, absolutely nothing but a light breeze high up in the trees that he ignored because it seemed as fake as the rest of this thing.

Three weeks and there hadn’t been…anything.

Not a mugging, a rape, a murder. Not even a speeding ticket was given in the entire City of London proper. The Mayor was talking of reallocating the police force to the outer parts of the country, where there had been a dramatic rise in crime in recent weeks with as many as 65 murders in Oxford alone. The world was going mad, but London was quiet, serene. People walked instead of taking cars, they smiled at each other and all but ignored The Tube, relishing the fact that they could safely walk anywhere they wanted to and not be molested by anything.

Mayor Khan had as much as got up in front of the city and guaranteed them that the police force was such a threat to the criminal element they had tucked their tails between their legs and they had run away to leave the righteous and beauty of London be as was it’s historic due.

Yeah, he really said that.

Rickson knew that wasn’t true. he knew the truth. He couldn’t believe it, but he knew the truth. That damn card was nowhere to be fucking found anywhere. he knew he had left the damn thing on the desk and someone had come by and bloody nicked the thing. After he says no crime there is a theft. Bullshit promises.

What he wanted to know. What he NEEDED to know and what kept him up for hour after hour the last few days is what would happen when the month was over and the crime returned. The police dispersed over half the damn country, there was going to be a…he couldn’t even think about it without going half-mad from the guilt of a thing he had thought a damn lark.

Nodding his head he walked back into the humble house he had inherited from his mum and dad when they passed a few years ago. He had never been married or even really dated. The job had been his life for more years than he was comfortable admitting and he knew, HE KNEW, that what was to come was directly his fault.

He sighed and stepped up onto the chair in the kitchen. It was a hickory chair his dad had bought when they had a holiday in America. It gave him a smile as he wrapped the bedsheet around his neck and tied it off nice and tight so that he wouldn’t fall out of it when he inevitably started to kick in a few moments. He had left a note on the table and that should be enough.

With a final sigh, he simply tilted the chair and fell into his noose, his neck breaking perfectly at the C2 vertebrae and killing him instantly. He didn’t kick at all it turned out.

_____

The letter was in some kids’ hand now, he had heard the old man next door make a lot of noise and had peaked in just as he had hung himself.

He walked in just as free as you please and loaded up his pockets with anything he thought might fetch a price later and pocketed the letter without reading it just in case it had some account number in it he could use.

There were no words on the paper when he opened it though, just a shiny black card with a .onion address on it and nothing else.

Music Soothes The Savage In Us, Releases The Primitive, Cages The Demons And Is The Memory We Can Always Count On

It is ironic what can make your heart bleed, isn’t it? For some people it is things that bring happiness and joy, for others, it is that which devastates and brings agony. Most of us are a combination of these things, however. For me, it is music. Music is that which does both for me. I have songs for virtually every mood I am in and the mood that I want to be in. What the music is isn’t so important to this as knowing there is a medium that conveys, nearly perfectly, everything you feel in life. Not everything, no, but enough to call it a majority by a landslide.

The plurality of the available options is staggering, even from the most modern artists. The farther back in time one goes the more exponential the number of things that can be conveyed. Or, and this is a thing that I think is wonderful beyond words, two people can listen to the same song and have diametrically opposite feelings towards it. You can hear me laughing over your weeping and you can see my sobs even as your skin crawls in ecstasy.

Words, while directly describing the feelings from time to time, are not a necessary element. Anyone who has ever listened to Adagio for Strings as arranged by Samuel Barber and felt it the way a great many do knows precisely what this means. Or when you are listening to the bass of the 1812 Overture as the cannons fire over and over or even when you hear the synthesized bass drops of Dubstep. Words may make it easier for things to be understood, but when you feel a song in the center of your soul, you will feel it whether or not it has words or not, I promise.

Examples.

When I listen to Cry Baby by Janis Joplin, even as I type it in fact, I start to tear up because, of all the demons my mother had in her life, and they were nearly infinite, that woman had a phenomenal taste in music and she passed it to her children. Being the hippie of the family, the folk and acid jazz from the sixties were my birthright and it is one of the few things I can thank my mother for without shaking my head in pain or rolling my eyes with sarcasm. Now while every song in the ten years that were the sixties is not known to me of course, enough are that I can close my eyes and remember the scant memories of childhood that are not contaminated with the foulness of everyday life they were dispersed in.

Couples have songs that they call their own. Whether it is in a laughing way or a way that makes you nearly see their love for one another, they are foundational characteristics of the relationship. My own are near and dear to me and I will not name them, it is one of the few things I keep very safe in a very clean room in the back of my mind that I go and sit in at least once a day with my eyes closed and allow myself to remember and feel everything and anything that was Naomi. I cannot do it all day or else I would be nearly catatonic, but when I need to find respite, even for a moment when the world has told me I am a failure for the hundredth time that day, I think of that room and I crawl to it and listen to these songs and smile with a purity I do not deserve.

I did not forget the anger. Music is a very good conductor of this often misunderstood emotion. It is not good to be violent at all times nor is it healthy to be angry at all times. However there are times when you can release that anger into the world, sometimes even by putting the headphones a little tighter, turning up the music a little louder and letting all of your emotions flow as the music takes away from you the foulness that you do not need and have never deserved.

So I ask you, all of you, during this time when we are all, hopefully, distanced from one another physically to tell me your songs that are the balm for your soul if you are comfortable sharing them. Or, if you are not, then simply listen to one of them when you can and find yourself in your own clean room in your mind and heart remembering that which deserves to be remembered the very most.

This Is What I Do When I Have Way Too Much Time To Think And Not Enough Time To Process The Thoughts

Here I am again, I decided to see what I could do in a finite period because I am bored and bored people come up with ways to challenge themselves that they may not do normally. As I cannot do a story because of reasons, I am essentially going to do a stream of consciousness writing and whatever comes into my head will be what ends up on the paper. With the exceptions of major typos and slight structure corrections, I will not change a word once I begin the piece.

Go.

So I was writing that thing earlier and even as I did I knew that I wasn’t happy with it because I excluded, on accident and on purpose, people who truly deserved to be there. I am listening to Confusion by New Order, the Pump Panel Reconstruction Remix version and it is a base beat that helps me focus and, awesomely, it is about as fast as I can type when I am doing something like this so it sets a decent pace. Back tot he people I left out. I didn’t do it to scorn them, not at all. Some people I would not name because they would prefer I didn’t and a few would actually get royally pissed off at me if I were to put them in writing of any kind. Truthfully? I think that is a huge fucking shit thing. I get privacy, I do. The people who just don’\t wanna, get over yourself and accept the fact that information is a free thing. If I am going to write about you from now on, well, I am just going to do it, You can yell at me after the fact.

I think the fact that I decided to do what I am doing right now is a telling thing to tell you the truth. I mean, I have all these projects I can be working on and instead I am seeing how many words I can type in X minutes to feed the fragility that is my ego. Or is it superego? I never could remember the difference when it mattered. I suppose it is a little of both as it is conscious and unconscious at the same time, but maybe that is me making up an answer to fit the things I am trying to say. I mean, it is a thing people do right? I am pretty sure that I know what I am saying, but then again most of the psychology I know has been gleaned by the ones I myself have seen professionally.

Segue.

When I was in kindergarten I had a crush on this girl named Tiffany. Now all Tiffany wanted in the world was a Cabbage Patch Doll so I told her that no matter what I was going to get her one. Even then on the toxic white knight thing am I right? So anyway I go home and I tell my mother that I need to get this thing for my girlfriend, mostly because she was both the first and second parts of that compound word and not the other meanings attached to it, and my mother laughed at me and then hit me hard in the face with the phone she had been talking on. It was this old house phone that was just past the rotary stage and when she hit me with it I got this cut under my left eye that, if you wanna get REALLY friendly close, you can see today. I was bleeding all over everything so she got mad about that and clipped me along the side of the head and got me in the car and drove me down to the hospital in Northridge and on the way there she fed me the story of what I was supposed to say and everything to back it all up. I go in there, the doctor sees it, asks my mom to leave, I tell the doc she swung on me, he calls CPS and I get removed from the house.

2 Days.

I am back in the house and to say m mother is pissed is an understatement and to let all of the evil things slide by would be a disservice so I will say that I didn’t come out of all of that the same as I went in and I have some marks from it thirty-some years later that look like things they are not.

Moral.

No, no moral at all. If the woman had any morals to speak of she wouldn’t have kicked the shit out of her oldest son like he was a soccer ball at a quinceañera party, you know? Unfortunately for me, it was the spring break or something and I had all the time in the world to heal up before I got back and by then the fear was in me so deep that I never said word one about it again until I started to talk to my therapists about it as an adult. That shit leave marks you can’t see too.

Back to the basics.

I know that I ask a lot of all of you. I know I am not the most mentally sound. Hell I know there is a decent chunk of you who pick and choose what I say that you want to believe that day and, you know what, that’s okay. I have done some horrible lying in my way and I should be treated with a somewhat extended hand before you accept anything. Yes, it hurts like a motherfucker, why would I ever deny that, but it is the truth and that means more than anything at the end of the day.

Again.

So I am going to write even more than this tomorrow because I can and because it is Friday and because, because, because I think it is a thing I can do well and it will get all the demons I have in my head out of my head and shove them out into the universe to get as diluted as they can before I inevitably fill up the container in my head they are in again and again and I do this a few times in the future and all of that.

Skip.

I love all of you more than I should. I know that. I do deep dives when I love people and I never remember that most people don’t do that so when it inevitably comes up that LOVE and love are not a compatible thing, compromises are made and LOVE turns into, well, it turns into a lot of things doesn’t it? No, not the sexual love, not always. Hell yeah I want to have sex with some of my friends, i even tell a large portion of them that very thing. However I do it too often and it makes me look like a fucking loon so I am actively trying to stop doing it…..e writes after just doing it again. Well, Like I said it is a thing I am trying to do and will I ever achieve what I wasn’t? Hello if I know, I just know that I need to be the things people need because that is who and what I have forced myself to be in the last three decades and I am pretty sure it is too late to just start everything all over and decide that maybe I don’t want to be some of the things people have come to love the most about me.

Some of them anyway,

I was the Bear before I was anything else and I am fine staying that as long as people will maybe think before they say all the things they do about how feeling and thing and being a thing are different. Maybe there are differences, yes, but never tell someone that their belief structure is wrong simply because it is a thing you think you can do and not get punched in the face. I haven’t done the punch the people in the face in a long time and I really kind of miss it actually, so I think I have that going for/against me in the grand scheme of things. I don’t know when this thing got off the rails but I am not even sure I know what the hell the track is, never mind where the hell the track is. Maybe it is something I can find as I write more and more both today and tomorrow and moving forward One thing about this social distancing thing is that no matter what no one can tell you how much of an asshole you are being for not seeing them unless, but by the very definition of social distancing they are indeed being the assholes that they are accusing you of being.

Sense? Any? Maybe?

I think I am almost out of time I on the time I set so I will tell everyone that I love them one more time and before you all go to bed in your beds tonight and forget everything I am writing here and most of the things you have read and thought of today remember that sometimes people hear you when you don’t think they do, they see things maybe they aren’t supposed to see and they feel things you apparently think it is not possible for them to feel.

Rawrz and stuff.

Analysis Of Stupidity, Greed, And The Avarice Of The Human Condition In A Little Under Six-Hundred Words

Now that my headache has reduced itself to a passively dull roar, I think I can get to the writing of things that I have been meaning to write for nigh on a week now with absolutely no success. I am going to have to ask you to go on a little trip with me today because I am pretty sure that some people are going to disagree with my interpretation of the motives I will discuss, and that is fine as we are all entitled to our opinions on the matter and, given the subject matter I admit my bias is about as high as it can get.

So, in the words of my beloved witch Corrine, Let’s Get Started Shall We?

I spend far too much time on Facebook for my own good, I know this. I also write about my late wife a great deal. However, as of late, Facebook has been using the latter because of the former, as you can see from the picture below.

Shirt
Shirt

Now, I am sure some of you will roll your eyes a bit and say that this is a sweet thing, and as I said this is your opinion. However, after conducting a little experiment, I am pretty sure that it was targeted advertising and that does not sit well with me in any way, shape, or form.

Death Profiteering.

These people/this person/this company has decided that what they want to do is get men, and I am going to assume there are opposite societal gender equivalents, to spend money based on the grief and emptiness they feel as they think of the passing of their loved one.

Now, I will again admit I am very close to this and am biased beyond words. That having been said.

How fucking dare you pick the lowest motherfucking hanging fruit on the goddamn tree and try to siphon money from people who have lost more than is even imaginable.

How fucking dare you try to make me pay so I can wear a thing that tells the world that I love and miss my fucking wife. I am well aware of what I miss, people who know and love me are well aware of what I miss and I do not feel the need to advertise my pain to make you a goddamn dollar.

Ahem.

Now, the experiment I conducted is that for a few days I browsed Facebook solely with the account that is connected to my web page and not me personally. I did not get these ads a single time. Following that, I spent three days counting how many times I saw this ad and when all was said and done after three days I had seen it sixty-seven times.

Sixty. Seven. Times.

I understand how targeted advertising works as much as the standard layperson, but doesn’t a near 70 impression count to a single source over 72 hours, on both PC and Cell, seem a bit much? I need to see the ad nearly once an hour on average? I need to have you hammer the nail into my heart roughly that many times and, what, Ia m supposed to buy your shirt to make the pain stop?

I am pretty sure if that was how it worked I would have bought a fucking coffee cup over the last half-decade or so that my wife has been gone thank you very much.

Thank you for reading, I needed to get that out of the way.

Rawrz

Radio Silence

I don’t take breaks from social media very often, and when I do it is mostly because I have a huge upset in me that I need to process and I don’t particularly want to do that in front of my closest friends and chosen family. I am well aware that they, you, will help me with everything that I need help with because you have a thousand times before and I promise you will a thousand times after this.

I am reevaluating my presence on social media completely. Why do I need to be on SO many things? I’m on Mastodon for fuck’s sake, NO ONE is on Mastodon. Twitter and Facebook, MeWe and Tumblr, LiveJournal (yes, that one) and Discord. Why do I need to have that many people have access to the things I am thinking and feeling? I know I am a Stage 24 clinger but I don’t need that many people knowing what the fuck is going on, and not going on, in my head, do I? Do I really need to tell people how sad I am every day? How much that or this hurts? How much I miss Her? Does EVERYONE need to know EVERYTHING?

No, they don’t…….I do though.

I need to tell things, whether it is editorialized things like this or a fantasy of dark faerie queen.

It’s like Rilke says, “If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.”

I can’t remember the last time I woke up not wanting to write, I don’t know if I ever have done such a thing since I found the notebook by the dumpster at some no-name motel in Sylmar, California almost 35 years ago and just started writing how much I hated her and how bad it hurt.

I wrote then as I write now, and the pain goes away, even for a few minutes, maybe an hour. I write a story and I can make others happy. I write a book, maybe I will never feel the pain again?

See, you did help me, you do. Every time you read something of mine, you help. Every time you like it, or even casually mention it, that pain just ebbs a bit, not even as much as a moment, but it is there and I will love all of you forever for it.