Another Memo from The Psych’o’Desk

A single day away from becoming a supervillian. Maybe a Robin Hood-like cat burglar stealing from fat cats and paying off students loans. Or maybe a bio-terrorist burning down the steely excess and returning the land to a state where the buffalo can roam free…or maybe a man who wants to watch the world burn.

An agent of post-fascism. My deeds will make all of The Damned look up in awe as everything they valued, what they thought held any kind of weight, crumbles under the fiery justice of chaos and flutter up to the heavens, charred snowflakes in reverse.

A flash bang of pitch white. Thundering pounds from somewhere drawing nearer.

Monuments of decadence fading away into the ether, they will stop and realize how little significance the world on top of The Pillar that was fabricated really was. Flimsy nonsensical fallacy filled hot pockets.

And they’ll finally be able to breathe with faces unsubmerged from the shallow vomit pool  expelled from The Leviathan. And they’ll stretch their hands upwards, wondering what’s next, hoping they’ll be able to feel tangible proof of the upcoming next Big Thing.

Some would merely cry. Some would not be able to handle the change, pulling their hair out from the root so hard that specks of skull come out with it. Vultures would pick away at their cerebellum until they passed on.

The Others, the ostracized, would band together. For the first time in modern history, there would be no structures, no bullshit, no distractions. The dust will settle and The Cosmos will be fully visible. Just for a moment, we will all reach a singular conclusion.

.  .  .

Until that single day comes.

I guess I’ll keep selling my soul in exchange for scraps of ugly green imagination and force the faces of slave owners to buy me sticks of deodorant and bottles of Cognac.


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