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.


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.



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.


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.

Leader – Introduction

From the top of the hill, they looked like so many ants, scurrying to do the tasks he had set them to do and coming back to him for more, and more still. it was an easy thing, sitting and telling them what to do because all these people wanted, was someone to take control of the chaos of their lives and give it some meaning, who was Peter if not a man to help these people get precisely what they desired so very much?

It had been so very easy. Park benches at first. he would come up to the solo people there, male and female, and he would simply talk to them and tell them what they wanted to hear in return. he was positive that they knew that was exactly what he was doing. No one person in the world knew everything. Soon park benches became speeches on the unused baseball diamond and later than that, the rec center in the park that someone would rent out so as many people could come and hear him say these wonderful things he was saying. Five became dozens, dozens became hundreds and because of the joy of the Internet, the numbers were impossible to accurately tell now.

He sat up on the hill in his smartly designed suit, feeling the warm breeze of the devil winds of the Santa Ana that were barreling down the coast to where they were in Baja California. He was completely alone up on the hill and it was a magnificent thing. He saw the builders making homes, the cooks making food, the children playing in the grasses of the valley floor and not a single person was unhappy or out there against their will.

Much to the consternation of the young ladies, and some gentleman, of the group, Peter was a celibate man. Having made the decision in his early youth and never once questioning it or being tempted towards leaving these self-made vows. He did not want their money, he did not want anything from them except their ears to listen to the things he had to say. They were free to go, in fact, Peter had bought them plane and bus tickets when they thought they needed to be elsewhere.

The world was so vast, pennies slipping from a bank vault would not be noticed. He was not planning on making them all drink Kool-Aid, collect assault rifles or have all the women become sister-wives.

No, no that wasn’t the plan in the slightest.

Ignorance Is A Lot Of Things, Blissful And An Excuse Are Not On The List

I have been doing a lot of thinking the last few days and when I wasn’t in agonizing pain yesterday I did more. I have been thinking that this is as a good a time as any for a mid-life crisis, so I am pretty sure I am having one, but not in a particularly bad way, more of a reevaluation of how I want to live my life and influence those around me in their lives. I know I have many faults and while I am going to address those as they need to be addressed, I am not a few things that apparently some people seem to think I am. I thought I would take a second here and share with you the things I am not so that you, dear Gentle Reader, would not be in a position where you wanted to ask me about a thing only to find out that, gasp, I know it not.

Yes, I have done bad things in my life and have spent time in the correctional system to repay the debt to society I had accrued. I will never deny it and in fact, probably talk about it far more than I should. However, what I am not is a how-to book. I did my bad things almost twenty-five years ago. I did them before 9/11 changed the world and before the government of this country started reminding us all of a government from another. So my “knowledge” of the correctional system is so dated as to be laughable. I can guarantee you that I have no idea how modern things work and while, yes, I can still tell you the guards’ names at County, the fact they most of them have been retired for a decade or so should be a telling statistic, to say the least.

Yes, I did a fuckton of drugs. I still call my self an addict, just one in recovery. That having been said I will not give you the names of “dudes who can hook you up with the good shit” or, even better in my opinion, “tell you stories about it so you can say they are your stories and let me people think you are the druggie without being one”. For starters, you are an idiot. Secondly, why would I tell you where to get things that might kill you, and that almost killed me? Thirdly, do your REALLY think the people I associated with have the same PAGER numbers that they had in the late ’90s. I mean, a little common sense needs to be applied here. Not only do I not remember anyone that I used to associate in that way, but I am also so very happy that is the case. It is not a part of my life I am particularly proud of and while I am not going to try and forget it, I do not need every moment etched into my soul, I assure you, there are enough things in there.

I will do the best I can to help my friends and chosen family, and yes there is a group of people who are on a list that is more important to me than the others. I do not apologize for this and you telling me that I need to “stop prioritizing human beings like they are cattle” is not only ridiculously insulting to your own intelligence, it is trying to infer that you or anyone else can dictate how I run my life and how I associate with people.

Yes, this was a ranting kind of thing. Yes, I am going to be writing more today. Yes, some of it will be angry.

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.