The Life and Death of Johnny Redbone

“Ladies and gentlemen, the END IS NEAR-AH! Have you all accepted your FAITH-AH yet?! Have you accepted Jesus CHRIST-AH as your LORD-AH and SAVIAH? Because that’s the only WAY-AH that your SOUL-AH will be Ssssssspaired.” Bill Bakerson squeezed out that last bit of breathe out of his lungs, as he grinned with his opened hands up in the air and reached for the sky. He was sweating profusely and panting hard.

“HALLELUJUAH!!!!” He screamed, as other members of his church came up to him to shake his hand – many in tears. They kissed his hand, as if it were the hand of God, itself. Although I doubt God would actually let you and I have to give him, God, credit when credit is due. At a later date and time, I asked God about Bakerson and he told me all about him. The things I’m telling you now are a combination of the things I observed myself and other facts as told to me by God. But let me continue.
Bill’s white-suit radiated on that stage on which he stood. It even radiated past and beyond the television set I was watching him on. His slicked black hair and sharp white teeth could only be overpowered by the shine in his eyes. Bill Bakerson was a beautiful man; much like a cherry red Ferrari Enzo is beautiful, there was a lot of time and money put into it. He emitted the Holy Spirit through every inch of his body. When he said “Amen”, people threw money at him, just for the pleasure and the prestige to be in the presence of such greatness.

Bill thrived off this attention. It made him stronger and more glorious. The more they loved him, the more handsome that he got. The more handsome that he became, the more likely he was to convince people that the route to salvation went through him. He was that light at the end of the tunnel, the beacon of hope, that sweet piece of pussy that you’ve been looking for all of you life. He IS the hope to a truth that he didn’t even believe in.

“You see people; we live during a very crucial time, a very crucial time in deed. We are constantly being tested, every second of our lives. We are being watched from above! AMEN!”
The audience repeated in agreement, “AMEN!”

“It’s scary. I know. I was scared once.” Bakerson said.

Bullshit.

He’d never been scared.

“I was scared as a child. My poor mother, God rest her soul, had to work all the time to support me and my little brother. My father had died when we were younger from pneumonia. He worked himself sick to support his family and when he died; our mother had to take his place. She had very little time to spend with my brother and me; she worked every single day, and usually all night long. Then, one day, she decided to move us all a bit closer to our Uncle Pete, who is sitting right over there. God bless you Uncle.

“My Uncle Pete helped my mother and my brother and me greatly, but the greatest thing he ever did was to show me the truth. That truth being Jesus Christ! That Truth BEING SALVATION-AH! THE LORD-AH! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!” And he went on with his sermon.

God told me that Bill Bakerson’s mother was a prostitute. His father was his Uncle Pete. Uncle Pete was of no blood relation to Bill’s mother. Uncle Pete was a snake dancer working on the Florida pan handle. He demonstrated his rattlesnake wrestling abilities one night in Texas in 1958 to Bakerson’s mother and low and behold, the man had potent baby juice. Uncle Pete ran a traveling business so he immediately lost contact with his newly impregnated cum-bucket of a romp. However, twelve years later Ms. Bakerson found a flyer pasted outside of the door of a local strip club she was working at in Louisville, Kentucky. That’s when she took Bill to meet his “Uncle” Pete, Pete and Ms. Bakerson kept the truth a secret from everyone including Bill. “Uncle” Pete knew he would be ruined if people found out that he had an illegitimate son with a washed up prostitute.

He agreed to take care of her and her family as long as she never spoke the truth to anybody. Ms. Bakerson took the truth with her to the grave when she died of an unknown illness five years later. Uncle Pete then took in young Bill Bakerson and his brother Tommy Bakerson as his own. While in his care he taught Bill and Tommy the ways of a snake handler. Bill loved the mysticism behind the entire show. How he made people believe that the Lord was protecting him from getting bit because of his intense faith in him totally amazed Bill. But Bill wasn’t as stupid or daring as Uncle Pete. However, he did possess a great ability to convince people of things. Tommy was good at walking around the crowds collecting money from them, whether they knew it or not. He was talented enough to steal a baby right out a woman’s womb with out her even noticing.

Uncle Pete taught Bill everything that he knew about the Bible and how to manipulate the text in it to use to his advantage. Eventually it became too costly to continue the snake handling business; many states were beginning to make it a finable event and Uncle Pete had one too many close calls. Luckily for him, Bill, at the age of twenty-one, was eager to step up with his own attraction. That’s when he created his church, “The Church of Immaculate Assumptions”. He traveled all over the country, preaching his teachings of fear of despair and peddling eternal salvation from a fiery destination.

He even started a funeral service called “Spread Your Ashes”. Essentially the idea behind this business was to provide a service for the deceased to be able to have a little bit of their ashes spread all over the world. It seemed like a great and noble idea, but Bakerson never shipped the ashes anywhere. Instead, he would use it as an excuse to take several trips around the world every year. The ashes were dumped on American soil, some were rubbed on passenger jets going to different international destinations, but they were mostly sold to the Chinese for use in quick-drying cement; which was sold back to Americans.

But before that, Bill Bakerson was good-looking, young, energetic and extremely believable. He, along with his brother Tommy and his Uncle Pete created an evangelical empire. They brought hope to millions of desperate people, many of whom were desperate enough to spend millions of dollars for a little sense of salvation. Bill Bakerson was doing the public a favor. He brought them peace by scaring the shit out of them.

“Good Lord, Good Lord! I can feel him!” Bakerson would raise his hands up to the sky in his new mega-church. It was an arena size amphitheater located conveniently next to a Wal-Mart, Home-Depot and Applebee’s. Tens of thousands of worshippers packed the joint Thursday through Sunday, for three shows a day.

“The lord tells me things. He started telling me things when I was a young boy and it scared me. It frightened the devil out of me. I thought I was going crazy, but there was this sense of love that came over me every time I heard that voice. I’d be doing all of you an injustice if I tried to explain the voice to you. Instead I want you to hear it for yourselves. I know you can. I know you will. All you have to do is BELIEV-AH! THE LORD-AH IS IN YOU-AH! CAN YA HEAR HIM-AH?!? CAN YA ACCEPT THE LORD-AH IN YOUR HEARTS?”

They could. They could feel it. They could hear him. Bakerson was right. He was the way to the lord and therefore he was the way to salvation. The ONLY way to salvation as far as the entire congregation was concerned. They gave all their money to Bakerson, without question. He couldn’t possibly be telling them any lies, he was too holy.

“God bless you all.” Is what Bakerson said as he got off the circular platform in the center of the mega-church. The mega-church was an arena-sized auditorium for Jesus freaks with no sense of priorities or knowledge of the meaning of the word hypocrisy. It seated thousands of humans and is able to engulf millions of dollars, in the name of God. God never saw a penny.

Ever.

He told me.

Bakerson walked back to his dressing room. On his way, he greeted and blessed all those who stood in his path. He was a polite man when he was working and his job was a literal full-time gig. If you ask me, it was creepy. Bakerson always wore a giant grin on his face. It was his greatest attribute. He was able to keep that immense grin despite what he talked about; it gave his followers plenty of confidence in him. He seemed happy, so why couldn’t they be happy if they did what he asked?

“God Jesus, I love my job.” He said as he entered his dressing room slash office and closed the door behind him. He made sure the door was securely locked before he took his suit-jacket off. He sat down on his chair and began to take his tie off. His brother Tommy was outside amongst the crowd doing what he did best, collecting donations for the church. His Uncle Pete in the meantime walked the crowd, looking for souls that needed to be saved.

Lot’s of people needed salvation, especially people who did things that The Church of Immaculate Assumptions found morally unacceptable. Fortunately for Bakerson, most of them stayed up late and intoxicated enough to watch his shows on television. They would flock to his congregation in hopes for the redemption that they thought they needed. These were real people, with real fears and no other hope but that given to them by Bakerson. So Uncle Pete sought out amongst the crowd any who would truly need saving directly from Bill Bakerson.

Among these dregs of society were Jack the Hammer and Sammy the Snake, two men who I’ll introduce to you later in greater detail. But some of the less fortunate chosen to assist Bakerson all fit a certain profile, they were young boys and girls, some runaways from decent homes but with confused ideas, while others came from broken homes and were just searching for peace and love somewhere and anywhere. Bakerson was willing to offer them what they needed, but his own needs would come before all of them and what he desired was just fucked up.

Bakerson liked kinky sex. He liked all sorts of crazy and dirty things. He thrived on the sickest things that a person could do to another. How he was able to achieve these twisted dreams was not hard.

Imagine being desperate. Actually, let me help you a little bit with that. You are a young man, only seventeen years old and have no education, no family and home. You aren’t a bad person but you have been forced to do things that you would not have normally done if you were born into a better situation. Your parents are lost souls, society has abandoned you and all you want is a warm home with some scheduled meals. But you don’t have any of these things and you don’t even know about them, because you’ve never had them. There is only this void that yearns for these things. This void is easily manipulated. YOU are easily manipulated.
You see hope. It’s on television and tells you that it can save you. All you have to do is to come down to the Church of Immaculate Assumptions. There, you will find a safe haven and sanctuary; within the walls of that arena Bill Bakerson will offer you a new life and a sense of security. But instead what you find is death, although if you are lucky just some genital herpes.

Before I arrived at 81st street, I had hopped on a seemingly empty train – which was highly unusual for a day like today, regardless of whatever was going on in Manhattan – but I immediately realized why. The smell of shit was overwhelming. I’m sure every one of us at one point or another has come in contact with such horrendous odors that have come from our very own bodies. Even the most beautiful of women are capable of producing the most disgusting of smells, and I only mention this to prove a point. The odor that permeated inside of the subway car was not acceptable coming from an orifice of any human.

I quickly discovered who the culprit was.

My choices were slim, but the obvious could not be mistaken. There were three people inside of that car. A young boy and his father, who I’m guessing were eastern European and probably accustomed to such smells, and the only other person was a homeless vagabond sleeping in the corner. Despite the comfort of the empty train, I had to switch cars to the more crowded one. The smell was simply that unbearable.

With my luck I bet you anything that that stinky fucker survived the rapture. Regardless, I made it to my destination unscathed.

I’m sure up until this point, I have made myself out to be a pretty good person, but the truth is that I’ve never met a good person and highly doubt that I am the only exception.

Misanthtope? Maybe. My flaws – much like everyone else – are my weakness, but I usually tend to be in very good control of them.

I drink when I’m bored. I smoke when I’m bored. And I fuck when I’m bored. And because of this, I’m never bored. When any of those three aren’t occupying my time, I like to mess with people. I mean really fuck with them. So much, that it got me fucking killed.

When I reached Central Park and saw all of those people gathering, some holding political banners and signs, chanting different things and others protesting against them, I stopped in my tracks and couldn’t stop staring. As I stared, I began to try to analyze what it was that I was seeing. Why were these people there? What do they see in all this and why do those other people care? Everyone who was there was obviously clueless to some degree. Even I wasn’t sure why I was there, but eventually it came to me. It was Bakerson. Bill Bakerson, that cock-sucking Reverend. I fucking hate Bill Bakerson. I hate him with all of my heart and passion and just about everyone filling up the park that day loved him.

That scared the shit out of me.

I began walking amongst these people and I couldn’t help but wonder what motivated these people to waste their time and energy on something so blatantly manipulative. I’m not even talking about the religion aspect of it all. That bullshit is neither here nor there. People need their vices, but these people didn’t seem to be the admitted masochists who enjoy being made fools of.
No, they must just have been stupid. Normally, I cared less what the stupid did, but it seemed to me that they had been running and ruining the country, not to mention the planet.

I once kept an online blog. A blog used to be a digital journal that a person could share with the rest of the world. Who ever wanted to hear my rants, could. I found it to be very therapeutic. The only problem is that I realized that only people who agreed with me read what I had to say. So, I wasn’t truly venting. There was still much more satisfaction to be gained from a good and honest rant. My rants had gotten me in trouble in the past and I didn’t expect any less this time. I would pay for the things that came out of my mouth.

At first, I had gone there to observe, but once there I knew I had a prime opportunity to piss a lot of people off and most importantly Bill Bakerson. I needed to get close to the concert, then unto the stage somehow, but I had no plan. Then a gift from God came.
The magic yellow bus pulled over next to me. But before I tell you how I beat a retard up, I’m going to tell you a bit more about Bill Bakerson.

I don’t want you to think that my actions were a result of some crazy obsession that I might have had towards Bakerson. I want to show you that he deserved it, that and a lot more.

I went home and straight to bed that night. I didn’t get out of it at all until Sunday, except to eat and go to the bathroom. I felt that I had to think about what I was going to do the next day. I stopped because it might have actually convinced me to back out. But instead I thought of a plan to get to Bakerson. I didn’t want to kill him or hurt him. I simply wanted to expose him and I figured the best way to do that would be by bullshitting my way through.

I woke up the next morning bright and early. I felt fresh and ready to go. I got myself ready and prepared to catch the nine-o-three AM train to Penn Station in Newark, where I was to catch the nine-twenty-two to New York Penn Station. At Penn Station New York, I would go hop on the C train that would take me to Eighty-first Street. Once there, I’d walk to the event in Central Park. Also once there, I’d figure out the rest. Sounds easy right?

Well, it really was. What can I say? The stations were all crowded with people trying to go see the Reverend, but I was able to make my way through the crowds with not problems. New York Penn Station was a zoo for people. There was every kind of person imaginable there. It was truly spectacular to walk amongst such am eclectic variety of humans, rich and poor, young and old, fat and skinny, sober and cracked-out, ugly and beautiful, well, you catch my drift. I had to go outside and cross the street to get the C train, I probably could have caught it without leaving the station, but when I would enter Manhattan, I would always lose all sense of direction. I would also gain a large appetite for mystery meat products, impaled on to wooden sticks and sold by middle-eastern street vendors.

I grabbed a shish-ka-bob right outside Madison Square Garden; I ate it standing next to the wall of the arena. I ate it with much satisfaction as I stared at all the beautiful women that walked past me. I stared at the ugly ones too, but only for reference and comparison and maybe a good laugh. Yeah, that’s right. God chose a scumbag who likes to laugh at ugly people. I didn’t do it to make me feel better about myself, it just was really, really fucking funny. Listen, I could tell you that we are all one and the same, that every single last one of us is as equal to the person next to them, but that would be a lie and I don’t lie. There were differences amongst us all and that’s why we were such a fun and interesting planet; unfortunately, we fucked it up. And this Sunday was the beginning to the end of all that was great and wonderful. I would become a martyr that day. I would become known to the world as Johnny Redbone, the fool who thought he could save the world.

I arrived at the Burger King at five twenty-three in the PM. I had to keep my senses intact so I focused on the people on line in front of me. I followed the hapless feet as they pushed on, sliding one in front of the other.

My turn to order came to me unexpectedly, I hadn’t even decided what I wanted to eat and frankly I wasn’t too hungry. I looked up at the board and read through the menu items. I got stuck at the last thing on the board. It said, “A picture menu is available for any customers who can’t read English.”

“Can I take your order?” The young black girl behind the counter asked me.

“Huh?” I had been snapped out of my daze.

“Your order, can I take your order.” She asked again.

“If someone can’t read English, how can they read that sign?” I asked her.

“Um… I don’t know. Let me ask the manager.” She said as she walked away.

“No, um… It was rhetorical. I don’t need an answer.” I tried telling her but I had no energy to project my voice so she couldn’t hear me. She was already asking the manager who had been taking care of the deep fryer. The line behind me had been forming with the after work rush. I could hear the people complaining about the service and the entire wait. I was in no rush. I didn’t have shit to do. The girl soon returned to the counter with the manager. The manager was a middle aged balding white man named Henry. Henry had a thick mustache and nasty breath.

“Hi sir, how can I help you?” He asked me.

“Sorry, it was just a misunderstanding. I really didn’t have a question. She just misunderstood me, but it’s okay.” I told him, I thought I was reasonable enough.

“Let me apologize for the lack of intelligence that some of my employees have. Now, may I take your order?” Henry the manager said this in a voice loud enough so that it could be heard by all of the restaurant’s employees and customers. The young black girl was obviously embarrassed.

“There’s no need for that Henry. Just because she didn’t understand something doesn’t mean she’s not intelligent. If anything, it shows a lack of training by management. I’m just guessing, but to me it looks like this girl is sixteen years old and hopefully one day when she is at your age, she isn’t so retarded that the only job that she can get is as a manager at a shitty fast food place. So the next time that you decide to belittle kids in front of others just so you can feel a sense of superiority in your otherwise miserable and shitty life, just remember that I might be around to hear you and if I do, I’m going to fucking stick your head in that deep fryer. Now do us all a favor and apologize to her and everyone else in here, before I begin to feel offended.” I saw the man blush; the top of Henry’s balding head was red.

Henry the manager did apologize to the girl and then apologized to those on line. “Over the speakers.” I told him as I gave a wink to the girl. She couldn’t hide her beautiful buck-toothed smile. Henry used the loud speaker.

“Is that alright sir?” He asked me.

“Yeah that’s fine, but I’m really not hungry anymore. You all have a nice day.” I went outside and began to walk to Larry’s. I needed to bullshit with a friend for a while and maybe have myself a drink.

As I walked, I remembered being a kid and having to put up with people like Henry the manager. I seemed to remember a lot of adults in my young life who seemed to enjoy nothing more than breaking the spirits of young boys and girls. “Tough Love” they called it. Sometimes they would say that they were preparing them for the world, a world full of really cold, mean people. Which is true, it is a world full of really cold and mean people, but making more of them isn’t the solution.

I tried not being a cold person, but sometimes it is necessary. I loved life, you know? I really wanted to enjoy everything that it had to offer. I wanted to travel, meet new people, see new places, eat great food, listen to great music, drink good booze and sleep with beautiful women. I burned hot with passion for life; it’s why I never “amounted” to anything. I didn’t see the need to be anything in life. I felt that enjoying it and being a good person was all that I needed to do. And that’s what I had tried to do all my life, but unfortunately I never put much thought into the greatest variable that would affect me, that variable being other people’s stupidity.

Over the years, this variable had been impeding my ultimate plan, to be left alone in peace. Fuck. Just thinking about that pisses me off, because I broke my own rule. I could have been left alone, I also could have been dead now, but instead I chose to do something different. I chose to show myself to the radar. I mentioned passion before but I could just be mistaking it for more stupidity. You see luck can damage a person’s perspective. I had gotten away with tons of stupid things in my past, many of which were harmless as far as my end was concerned, but dangerous in the fact that I’ve insulted many people who were a lot more vulnerable to attempting murder than I was. But until recently, I hadn’t ever encountered a situation that I couldn’t bullshit my way out of; being shot in the head really opened up my eyes to a lot of things.

Before then, I was willing to take any risk necessary to fuck with any assholes who try to shit on poor, defenseless and ignorant people. That’s why I needed to belittle Henry the manager, not for myself and not for Henry, but for that young black girl. I felt good letting her know that out there is a man, willing to fight for her, willing to protect her and willing to do whatever it is necessary to show all assholes like Henry that they just can’t shit anywhere they want. Henry was a warm-up. I wanted to fuck with the biggest asshole of them all and I was seeing an opportunity. I just needed the encouragement.

I arrived at Larry’s. A couple of years ago Roger started doing a happy hour thing and at first the place would always be mobbed with people, but over the time, it has reduced to only the more hardcore usual patrons. It was actually rather depressing and dark.

“How you doing Larry, let me get a Beam and Seven.” I ordered as I walked towards the back. For happy hour, there was always a free buffet of cold pizza and Buffalo wings. I grabbed a plate of some crap and went back to my stool. Roger came over with his drink and placed it down before me.

“Breakfast of champions, huh Johnny?” Roger asked me.

“Roger, do me a favor. I promise that from now on I’ll call you by your real name just as long as you never say that again. This is no breakfast of champions.” I said as I took a bite from my cold pizza slice and swig of my drink.

“Fair enough Johnny. How are you today?”

“A little bit under the weather, my head has been too loud, if you know what I mean. Roger do me a favor and put the news on, on this TV.”

“Sure thing Johnny. You need another drink?”

“Thank you Roger, you know I do.”

I sat on the stool, eating my crap food and drinking my unholy elixir. I stared at the television, much like I was doing earlier in the day, watching the news. I saw images and heard voices, but none made any sense to me. Maybe it was the booze that had eliminated my hangover, but definitely not the cloudiness that ran through my head.

You see, while I sat there at that bar, there was peace, not just somewhere, but everywhere. For the first time ever in the history of mankind, there was global peace.

A movement had developed across the United States based on fear, religion and patriotism. Bill Bakerson had a strong following. His Church of Immaculate Assumptions had two hundred million members in the United States alone and rumor had it that he was planning on running for presidency. That scared me a bit, but now with all these miracles occurring everywhere, I was feeling really uneasy. Bakerson couldn’t possibly be a holy man. This couldn’t have been real. I was an atheist. My world had been turned upside down.

The news praised the Reverend and mentioned the celebration that was to be held on Sunday. I looked over to Roger, who was watching the news too, and said, “I’m going to go.”

“Yeah, you and everybody else. This Bakerson is some shit. Everyone is going to want a miracle. You know they are calling him the new messiah.”

“No Roger, something is wrong. I don’t trust that dude. I don’t believe him or what I’m seeing on the television. I have to see him perform some miracles for myself.”

“Do whatever you have to do, Johnny. I personally don’t want to be anywhere near those assholes. While everyone is asking for a cure, I’ll be contacting all the diseases people are carrying into there.”

“I hear you. But I have to do something. I have to stop this dude.”

“So what are you going to do, kill him?”

“No, that won’t help. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I got a feeling that I’m not going to see you for a while, so get me another drink. I’ve got a lot of brain cells to kill.” I smiled at Roger. Roger nodded and went off to fetch me my drink. I thanked him when he brought it back and managed to take my eyes off the television set and fixed them unto my drink. I sighed and took a sip. I’d never see Roger again.

It was now Friday morning and I needed to be at work at some time around noon. I got back to my yellow home at ten forty-five AM. I opened the door, walked inside and went straight for the living room. I sat down on the couch and put my head in my hands. I kept running through my mind whether or not I was actually going to make in to work at all today. My head was aching but was not feeling as bad as my stomach was. I wondered if I could just go to sleep and forget the day, wake up tomorrow and just act like nothing was different, but I knew that I didn’t have that luxury.

“It was my birthday yesterday. Fuck them, let me have today for myself.” I thought out loud as I grabbed my cell phone and called my boss.

“Barry,” that was my boss’s name. “It was my birthday yesterday. (pause) Yeah I found out last night. I kind of got a little banged up. There’s no chance in hell I can make it in today. (pause) Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone and lay down on the couch. I grabbed the remote control for the television and hit the power button.

I remembered when I could spend hours in front of a television set without watching anything in particular. I simply switched the channels repeatedly, every once in a while; I’d pause if there was an image that caught my attention. Usually, it was something bizarre or sexy. I used to love all the science and history channels, but after a while I grew tired of the same documentaries on Hitler, UFO’s and the Free Masons. So instead, I’d search for things that pissed me off. I’d stop on all the programs that completely baffled me to acknowledge why they even existed. Amongst my favorites were the shop-at-home channels, the depressing stories channels and the political channels. But there was a show in particular that I could not stop watching. It was so utterly ridiculous to me that I just couldn’t keep myself from watching it. The show was called, “Our Savior” starring the Reverend Bill Bakerson.

Over the past year there was a great change in America. The power of television had been observed by all the puritanical and oppressed majority voters in the country; and they decided that it was time for them to censor all, for the sake of the children. I agreed with them; how else could they expect for their children to grow up to be just like them, if they were constantly bombarded with different points of views and ideas? They blocked out everything that I enjoyed watching. There were no more hot Spanish girls dancing on television Sunday mornings. Only “Our Savior”.

It was a tele-evangelical program based upon the basis that the literal translation of the words of Jesus Christ within the Bible allows people to wash away their sins or worries by sending the Rev. Bill Bakerson and his church, “The Church of Immaculate Assumptions”, as much money as they couldn’t afford. Luckily for most people, The Church of Immaculate Assumptions also took all forms of credit cards, personal checks, traveler’s checks, money orders, first-born children, and young girl’s panties.

So I turned to the holy channel and I listened to what the Reverend had to say.

“Oh Lord! Oh Lord! There are so many things in this world that we worry about. We worry about our jobs, our children, our health. These are the things of our daily lives, the very things that test us and test our faith! But, we need to be strong Lord! We need to be strong! The words in this book are strong! They are strong because they are your words Lord! Amen Lord, Amen! Yes there are problems down here on earth Lord, but only through you can we find an answer!”

“Now I know all you out there think that money is the answer. ‘If only I had more money’ you might say to yourself. You might get on a knee and look up to our Lord and pray, ‘Dear Lord, I need more money to feed my children, to pay my rent, the bills are collecting and I don’t know what to do Lord!’”

“Well, let me remind you all a little something, Luke 13:16 says ‘No servant can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.’ Amen, Amen.

Money is not your master only God is and if he brings you these problems, you need to see them as blessings! God is showing you he cares so much about you that he is teaching you personally. Like Jesus Christ was nailed to that cross, you too were chosen by God to carry a burden, because you are a child of God.”

“We here at the Church of Immaculate Assumptions are here to help spread the words of God, because it is our duty as the children of God to do so, it’s what he wants from us as is told by the only truth we know within these pages! We only have one master and we must do his bidding by sacrificing. I know you’ve got problems at home; I know you need to pay the bills! But the entrance into God’s home is not free! Oh no! Jesus gave his life! He suffered and died for all of our sins and you’re going to ask the Lord to make your life better?! He has been making your life better ever since he entered your hearts and your souls. You will be repaid in the Kingdom of Heaven with God’s grace for all of eternity.”

“So help us spread the word through out the entire world. Help us any way you can. We have operator’s standing by, just call the number at the bottom of the screen or wait until the end of the show and we’ll give you a mailing address for those of you who’d like to send us your contributions towards the Lord’s word. Remember that the Lord, is the ultimate Land Lord and his rent must be paid first!”

“Now, I know you all will make the right decision or else answer to God at a later date. Now there are others of you out there that have a different lesson to learn from God. You don’t have to worry about money. You don’t have to worry about paying your bills, or your rent. I see America getting fatter, I see all these nice cars parked outside in the parking lot. You are all dressed very nicely here today. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t care about what you look like. The Lord wants his people to look good, but he also wants them to be good. And your overabundance is his way of testing you all.”

“Matthew 6:19-21: ‘Do not save riches for yourselves here on earth, where moths and rust destroy, and robbers break in and steal. Instead, save riches for yourselves in heaven, where moths and rust cannot destroy, and robbers cannot break in and steal. For your heart will always be where your riches are.’ Do you understand this? All these things you buy are of no good to you or the Lord. He wants you and your success to help spread his words. He has chosen you to be givers, not hoarders of all that is unnecessary. Remember God sees all and will judge you accordingly. The more you give, the more God knows that you really understand his work and the more likely that he will judge you and bless you with his company.”

“God Bless you all and Amen.”

“Asshole.” I hoped he heard me say that through the television. It was the number one rated show in the country.

I changed the channel. I surfed from station to station finally stopping at one of my least favorite full-time “news” channels. I hated the news because I couldn’t understand how the things that were shown on it actually became reality. I read history books in school and then I read other books that disputed the ones from school and were a lot more depressing than the glorious stories I had learned through out my many years in the public education system. I wondered how they never mentioned my father’s people despite the fact that they had been in this country way before those who wrote the history books had arrived. I didn’t expect them to document their entire history, but at least a more realistic view on what might have happened to them.

I doubted many things and because of this I had very little trust for any one other than myself. Religion baffled me and so did politics. A young child asks “why?” at an early age and is then quickly encouraged to “keep quiet”. I saw this as the most horrendous event that can occur to any person within their entire lifetime. That is when their quest for knowledge and understanding is blocked by a harsh and cruel world that simply tells the child to “keep quiet”. Why should they be quiet? Why can’t they ask “why”? Shouldn’t they be allowed to know? Shouldn’t everyone know why? I’m sorry, I just can’t stop asking “why?”
People always say, “We’re living through difficult times.”

“No shit.” I’d say then ask them. “When has there not been a difficult time? There has always been a war somewhere on the earth, not a year has gone by without a murder, a death, a robbery, an accident, disease, famine, drought, and just plain atrocities created by humans upon other human beings. So you tell me. When has there not been a difficult time?”
I knew to ask this question, because I had asked this question to myself in the past and sought through the pages of all written history for a moment in time where there were no difficulties placed upon man kind. I was unsuccessful. There was never such a time. So I searched more to try to find out why? Why is it that man is this way? Why are we here? Why is there no peace?

The President of the United States was on television again. He was a simple man. That worried me a lot. “Why?” I asked. “How could such a powerful and great country with all the resources in the world choose such an inept human to be its leader?” I needed an answer to this question, so I did what I thought I should do in order to find out. I talked to them. I talked to people, to all types of people. I enjoy it and I have become pretty good at it. Every person is different and should be treated differently depending on the reaction that you want to get from them. I’d found out a while ago that I was good at this.

There was this one time that I found myself in a hotel in South Beach, Miami. It was a beautiful hotel in the Art Deco section called The Hotel Clinton. On the last day of my stay, as I waited for my cab, I found myself sitting at the pool bar drinking some seven and sevens.
An older man in his fifties sat next to me. The man was wearing a red Speedo, but luckily for me, he had wrapped himself up in a towel. I had made friends with all the bartenders at the hotel, so at the time I was bullshitting with Pavel, a young polish immigrant who miraculously figured out that it was much nicer to be a bartender at a hotel in Miami than doing construction back in Poland.

Within a matter of seconds, a conversation had sparked up between the man with the Red Speedo, who also happened to have extremely and very unnaturally white teeth, and me.

The man was down there on business; he was a property investor. Coincidentally, he also happened to be from New Jersey. The conversation that developed between us was very lop-sided and as a result it opened my eyes to something completely new. I had never before realized that some people are completely oblivious to what is really going on. I assumed that people just didn’t care, but on that day with that man, I came to realize that some people haven’t got any fucking clue.

So I talked to the man and had more drinks with him. I didn’t mind; I wasn’t paying. He spilled out his entire life to me. He told me about his divorce with his wife. How at the age of fifty, this man was banging a hot Brazilian chick and trying ecstasy for the first time and he had a great idea to ask for my opinion. He asked me. “Do you think she just wanted me because of my money?”

“Well fuck yeah,” I lifted my drink up as if making a toast. “But who gives a fuck? You got to do ecstasy and bang a hot Brazilian broad and you’re fucking ugly. You should be proud of yourself. Of course she only banged you for your money.” This didn’t make this man clueless, but it did make him human and stupid for not realizing it. The man continued to talk to me, telling me more stories.

“I never ride the subway in New York City, you can get mugged there.” The man told me.

“I always ride the subway. I’ve actually slept there some nights.” Which is true, I’ve passed out on trains and subway terminals many times in New York City. I had the tendency to enjoy myself a lot when I got the chance. I couldn’t miss out on an opportunity; I could’ve died anytime. How ironic to have lived that way.

“Aren’t you afraid someone is going to steal your wallet?” The man was actually intrigued and sitting on the edge of his seat.

“Who the fuck is going to steal MY wallet? People usually think that I’m going to steal their wallets.” That is once again a result of my fun-loving ways.

“Well, I usually take my driver. Isn’t it so much better?” The man asked me.

And I actually had to think about this. You see, I didn’t have a driver nor ever had one. I haven’t ever even been in a limousine, but this man simply assumed. Which was surprising to me because I’m a very low-maintenance type of guy, especially while on vacation. I hadn’t shaved for weeks and wore things that were comfortable, to say the least. My pants were pretty worn out, but not as bad as my sneakers; at least my shirt was nice and clean. It read, “South Beach” and had a golden sun in the background. Unfortunately, I spilled some seven and seven on it. I didn’t care; I was on vacation.

I realized that this man was clueless. He didn’t understand that a normal person couldn’t possibly have a driver. He also hadn’t said it maliciously, as if to rub in his glorious luxuries in my face. He just said it. I had to answer him and give him the honesty that he deserved.

“Well, yeah I guess having a driver would be a lot better. But, I take the subway and I’m never afraid of getting mugged. I have nothing for them to steal.”
The conversation continued.

Eventually, the man began to speak to me about his children. He talked about his two sons and his wonderful daughter. I listened as the man told me about all the lavish gifts that he’s bought his kids like houses and cars, etc. He told me that I should buy a Porsche or a Ferrari; this way, women will look and just lust over me.

“I don’t need a car for women to love me. I have charm and rugged good looks and luckily for me, I was also blessed with a ten-inch cock. That’s why I don’t need to wear red Speedos.” I told him as I ordered another drink on the man’s tab. The whiskey was obviously making me delusional and prone to hyperbole.

The man told me how he worried for his kids. How they were only making ninety thousand dollars. So he felt bad and bought his son a Porsche 911 and that his son didn’t want it, but wanted a BMW M3 instead. The rest of what he had to say didn’t matter, because it didn’t matter to me then and it doesn’t matter to me now.

But then, the man said this, “My oldest son, I think he only wants my money, my daughter is a saint, but my youngest son; he’s the sweetest. He looks out for me.”

“That’s because he’s smarter than you. He wants your money. They all want your money. The only problem is that the oldest boy probably turned out like his mother and that’s why you hate him. Your daughter is probably like you and just as clueless. But your youngest boy, he’s smarter than you and you haven’t realized it.”
Whiskey honesty.

“You think so?” The man had begun to get emotional. Most likely it was the booze, but the man actually looked like he was thinking about what I had just told him. I noticed. I had grown angry a long time before the man sobbed for his kids and their perfectly healthy salaries. I looked over to Pavel and then looked back at the man and began to speak.

“I make thirty thousand dollars a year. I paid for this vacation because I needed one. I earned everything that I have.” I looked over to the bartender, Pavel. “Pavel, when you came over to this country from Poland, how much money did you have? “

Pavel was a little timid to answer at first, but because he thought that the man who I was talking to was an asshole, opened up and answered, “I sold everything, I got on a plane with five hundred dollars and I got a job. I had nothing. For months, all I had was a small blue lamp and my bed. My clothes had to stay in my suit cases.”

“Would you rather be back in Poland?” I asked him

“Fuck no.” He answered happily.

Just then, the bellhop came to tell me that my taxi had arrived. I stood up and said goodbye. I was happy because I knew that I had helped that man. I knew that man learned something that day, because I made him feel like shit. I was also happy because I made a young Polish immigrant’s day, perhaps maybe even his week.

I really enjoyed making people, who deserved to feel like shit, manifest their destinies. “Why not?” I asked. I figured I was doing the world a service, it’s one of the reasons why God chose me.

So I sat there, watching the news and laid down on my back. I closed my eyes and started to drift away. Eventually, I went out for the count. I had been dreaming about marshmallow clouds and talking to chipmunks with huge perky tits, but was interrupted. I saw Bill Bakerson enter my dream and he mumbled a lot of nonsense that I couldn’t decipher. Bakerson was standing under an olive tree talking out loud, as if to a crowd. Then a second voice was heard. It was a familiar one and in the dream another person appeared next Bakerson. It was the United States President, President Beer. Yes, the president’s name was Beer, George Beer. His campaign slogan was, “Somebody you can have a Beer with.” People ate that shit up.

This was too much for me to handle and woke up. I immediately realized that I could still hear the voices. This made my heart race a little bit and then I looked over to the television. There they were, standing next to each other, under an olive tree, President Beer, Bill Bakerson and a token Muslim and Jew. Apparently, Bakerson had gone to the Middle East and converted all the Muslims and Jews to Christianity. They showed a video of Bakerson performing massive miracles in the West Bank. He turned the desserts into lush lands and it was spreading. The miracles would extent into India, China and the rest of the world. Bakerson had brought world peace in four days.

I burped up something nasty into my mouth. I swallowed it back down.

President Beer announced that their would be a celebration to be held for Reverend Bakerson in Central Park in Manhattan on Sunday.

I laid my head back down and tried to fall asleep but the world was spinning around too much. I stood up and walked to the bathroom. I turned the bathroom sink’s faucet on and dipped my hands into the cool water. I lifted the water to my face and then dipped my head down into the cool stream. The momentary relief was disrupted by another sudden urge to be sick. I didn’t budge, I figured the sink was a good enough place to be sick in, but soon my legs began to feel a bit weak and I felt the sudden urge to drop to my knees. Fortunately for me, the toilet was clean; Pepé was a very clean man.

I knelt there with my cheek on the toilet; the cold porcelain brought my nausea to a simmer, my hand hovered too close to the water, my fingers dipped down on occasion. I cursed the man who created mescal, but I really knew why I was feeling ill. Eventually the sickness subsided without having to convulse until I puked the bile and saliva that filled my fragile belly. I stood up and went into my kitchen were I grabbed a cold glass of water.

“Food,” I thought to myself. “I need food.”

I went through my refrigerator and cabinets but realized that I had nothing to eat. I decided to go to the Burger King, only a few blocks away. I got myself together and headed out the door. “One foot in front of the other and avoid any dog shit that might be lying around.” I needed to remind myself to stay sharp; God knows you shouldn’t be caught sleeping

I walked down the sidewalk on my way home it was July 8th, 2007. I had just turned twenty-seven years old the night before and had been traveling on my own since I turned seventeen. I stopped celebrating my birthday after my first year of traveling around. Constantly making and losing new friends, I felt that it would just be easier to forget about it, plus I always wanted to be one of those really old men who don’t even remember how old they are.

The night before, I went to a local bar after work. It was the type of bar full of young college kids drinking away their parent’s hard earned money instead of learning something, but that’s what college is about, right? Regardless, I wouldn’t have normally gone to this place on a night like this, but it was close to home, it was open late and it had a good drink special, a dollar and fifty cents for all domestic bottled beers, two dollars and fifty cents for all imported beers. Because of its locality, I was a pseudo-regular. It was a Thursday night so it was obviously designated “college night”, obviously, because any other night would not make as much sense to go out and party.

I had gone to this bar with my buddy and roommate, Pepé. Pepé’s actual name was José Guadalupe Jimenez Posada Lopez. Pepé was from Oaxaca, Mexico. He had left his home because it sucked. It was hot and his family was poor and he didn’t want to raise a family where they would be forced to continue to be hot and poor, no matter how hard they worked. So instead he saved up as much money as he could and had himself smuggled across the US and Mexico border; he was smuggled through Nogales, Mexico. Out of coincidence, it was named after the same town where my mother’s family had come from in Spain.

It took Pepé several years and several close calls with several people who didn’t want to share their air or jobs with him. There were several times when Pepé was picked up for work, gave his all for twelve or more hours doing all kinds of shitty jobs that no more qualified and more holy American would do and then told to go fuck himself at the end of the day, going home more tired and more poor than he was before that day began.

Pepé was working construction and living in Union, New Jersey when he met me. I had decided to get up and move from my last location because I couldn’t deal with my roommate’s threats to call the cops on me every time that I came home drunk and threatened him with a knife. I wasn’t going to kill him. I didn’t have the heart to kill anything, but I did get a kick from making this poor guy squirm. He was a born-again Christian and had made it his duty in life to save my heathen soul. So when I would come how at night, he would be waiting for me and would start reading from the Bible. Now you tell me, how wasn’t I supposed to pull a knife out on him?

I had figured that scaring this guy would give him the hint to not bother me again, but it never worked and it always ended up with me on top of him with my knife to my poor roommate’s throat. I figured I should move out before one of us went too far and he ended up stabbed.

I was a man of limited cash funds and had been for most of my life. I have done just about everything that I have needed to do to survive and a little bit more to pay for some pleasures. For a while I had it good, I had it really good. I was growing a lot of pot out in a commune in Pennsylvania. That place was the greatest. I was treated like a king. We all ate, fucked, drank and partied very well.

I loved it.

Unfortunately, the entire place was extremely illegal. We had a basement full of weed and guns. I had grown a bit carried away and paranoid. But that was a good thing. It turned out that the Feds were on to me.

There was a rat living amongst the group at the commune. I had figured it out and used him to get me out of the situation with the help of two buddies, Adam Stockton and Chris Gomez. Long-story-short, Adam created a divergence and Chris took over my place. I got rid of the drugs and guns. Trust me, it was not very hard to get rid of drugs and guns in America.

So everything turned out well for all of us, but I was still very bitter. I understand that the things that I was doing were illegal; I’m not stupid. I just had a problem with the laws. Frank Zappa once said, “The United States is a nation of laws: badly written and randomly enforced.”
I agreed with Frank and I wasn’t going to abide to stupid laws made by assholes because they can’t help the fact that they have no idea what they are talking about. Unfortunately, they had the big guns and the strength in numbers.

The numbers is what scared me the most. Society seemed to work much like a swinging pendulum. At times it would be high to the right, at others high to the left, but only when the pendulum was stuck in the middle, would it be less dangerous. The world was swinging erratically and some serious change was upon us.

At the time that this story takes place I was working as a computer repairman. Many people own them and many people break them. I got my hands on a computer one day and broke it and fixed it until I had learned all I needed to know.

One day while out on a job, I saw a room for rent sign on the windowsill of a weathered yellow house. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a short, brown skinned Mexican wearing nothing more than cut of jeans and a mustache that Pancho Villa or Tom Selleck would be proud to have owned. On his right forearm he had a shitty tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe. One day, I asked him if he had a girl back home and Pepé pointed at his tattoo and told me, “Deez iz da only senorita from back home for me.” (Try rolling your R’s when you say that. It’ll sound better.)

Pepé was a little skeptical about me wanting to rent the room. He thought that I might work for the INS, but after spending an hour conversing in Spanish while we smoked a joint in the kitchen convinced Pepé that I was “preetee cool”.

So, that’s how Pepé and I ended up being roommates and friends and why we went to that particular bar together that night. We both were working late and got home after the liquor store had closed. We sat on the couch for ten minutes watching Telemundo when I came up with the idea to go to the bar. It wasn’t hard to convince Pepé to go out for a drink or two.

We went to the bar called “Larry’s”. Larry’s bar was a local dive before all the college kids started to go there because they would hardly get carded for any ID. Larry’s was owned by a man named Roger, who had inherited the bar from his father, also named Roger. Roger’s father, Roger Sr., had won the bar during a game of darts from a man named Kelly. Kelly built the bar a few years after arriving from Ireland, sometime after the Second World War. He never mentioned why he named the bar “Larry’s” and no one ever asked. Larry’s bartender was Roger Jr., who started working there when he was nine. Obviously, when Roger first started working there, everyone who went to Larry’s was older than him, so Roger never bothered asking for any ID.

Roger hadn’t even realized that the drinking age had changed from eighteen to twenty-one, years ago, so he never thought he might be doing something illegal when he started serving the younger college students. Roger was just happy for the business. Of course, Roger got caught one day and was forced to pay a hefty fine for something wrong that he was not aware even existed.

Pepé and I had become pseudo-regulars at Larry’s, because of its location, which was three blocks from our house. On this night, since it was “College Night”, Roger had hired a doorman to ensure that there would be no more underage drinking and hopefully no fine for Roger to have to pay. Pepé was allowed to walk right in because his manly moustache ensured the bouncer enough of his maturity. The bouncer did ask me for my ID. I had no choice but to comply with this meathead’s request. I was okay with it, knowing that later I’d get to bitch at Roger about him. When the bouncer checked my ID card, he noticed that it was my birthday so he congratulated me, “Hey man happy birthday. July seventh, two-thousand seven, you turn twenty-seven and you come to this shit-hole? I hope you’re lucky.”

“Thanks.” I told him as I took my card back to inspect it myself; indeed, it was my birthday. I thought that was pretty funny, funny enough to tell Pepé about it. Pepé saw it as a perfect reason to celebrate and to drink a lot more than otherwise needed to. But, I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t happy to give in to my friend’s request.

I wish I could have a drink right now.

The bar was crowded with young men, wearing backward baseball caps and too much cologne, hovering over fine young girls, wearing revealing tops and too much makeup. Pepé was able to get to the bar quickly because of his small stature. He easily made his way through the crowd and in range for Roger to see him.

“Hey Pepé! What can I get you?” Roger had gone over to Pepé quickly. He hated the college kids, but needed to cater to them if he wanted to make money. Pepé told him that it was my birthday, so we needed to celebrate. Roger pulled out a bottle of “Gusano Rojo Mescal”. “No one else in this bar gets to drink from this bottle except for you and Johnny!” Roger needed to scream over the sounds of the North American college student mating calls.

“Tank jew Rogeh.” Pepé said in his stereotypical Mexican accent.

I had made my way to one of the booths at the back of the bar. Since there weren’t any vacant, I merely sat at the one with the most attractive women in it. The girls were confused since I didn’t say a word at first, I merely sat down and waited for Pepé. When Pepé arrived he said

“Hahlo” to the girls and sat down next to them. Eventually one girl would have the courage to speak to me.

“Um… We were sitting here already.” She said with a smug look on her face.

“And you feel free to keep doing that, but we need somewhere to drink, rest and celebrate. You see it happens to be my twenty-seventh birthday today according to my driver’s license and you girls seem nice enough to let us sit here while my buddy Pepé and I do some soul searching by getting to the bottom of this bottle here and eating that worm.” I smiled at them as Pepé poured me, then himself a shot. We touched glasses and took the shot. Pepé was unfazed but I began to turn red. “I need the salt and limes for this one Pepé. Sorry I don’t have your tolerance.” Pepé got up and came back a moment later with a small dish with salt and sliced lemons.

“We’re kind of expecting some more people.” One of the girls said to me.

“Congratulations must be exciting knowing more than three people.” I said as I poured Pepé and I another shot. This time I licked some salt before taking the shot and followed it by sucking on a lime. Pepé took his straight again.

“Could you guys please move?” The one girl asked again.

“Could you please shut the fuck up and enjoy yourself? It’s college night. Have some fun god damn it. Do you girls want some drinks? It doesn’t matter I’ll go get you some. Pepé, I’ll be right back.” I went over to the bar. When I got back to the booth, there were a couple of guys talking to the girl’s, one of the dudes was talking to Pepé. I put the drinks down on the table and began to speak to them.

“Hey guys, you must be some more people?”

There was a young guy with a tight shirt and spiky hair sitting where I had been sitting. He went to grab the bottle of mescal but was stopped by Pepé. “Dat’s not for jew, so don’t touch eat.”

“Fuck you wetback.” The guy said as he reached for the bottle again. That time I stopped him.

“Despite my friend’s accent, I think it was pretty easy to understand him when he said that this bottle is not for you, so don’t touch it.”

“Fuck you faggot.” He said to me as he stood up.”

“Pepé, please pour us another shot.” I asked my good friend Pepé and Pepé did. We both took the shot straight.

“I don’t want any problems here guy. I don’t like to fight. I don’t even like to get bothered. But so far, you have been very rude to my friend and me, and to be honest, there is only one thing that I can do about it.”

“No, you know what faggot? There ain’t shit you can do about it.” The guy puffed his chest out at me.

“There is, this.” I reached down and grabbed the guy by the balls. “You see this is a very simple request. First apologize to my friend Pepé, then to the ladies for making me do this in front of them and last to me because it’s my birthday and you were trying to grab my bottle.” The guy began to apologize, first to Pepé, then to the girls and finally to me. I don’t want to fight, but if you try anything stupid, I WILL crush your balls so that they never produce for you anymore over abundance of testosterone. You girls enjoy the drinks. I see two open spots at the bar where my friend and I will move to, just because we’re nice. Are we cool?” I squeezed a little harder.

“We’re cool.” The guy said as he sucked in some air trying to forget the pain I was inflicting on his nuts. I began to release my grip as I looked into the guy’s eyes, looking for any signs of bravery that he might have. I finally let go, grabbed my bottle and shot glasses and headed over to the bar. Pepé and I sat down on our stools.
Roger the bartender came over.

“Johnny, Happy Birthday my friend.” Roger said as he shook my hand. He was interrupted by a young man.

“Can I get three rum and cokes and a cosmopolitan?” The young man said as he waived a twenty-dollar bill.

Roger looked at him and sighed. “Give me a sec Johnny, let me take care of this prick.” Roger prepared the man’s drinks using the smallest and dirtiest glasses that he had behind the bar. The young man got his drinks and he handed Roger the money. Roger, as is customarily done by most bartenders, hands the change which consists mostly of singles back to the man. The young man puts a dollar down. I saw that and grabbed the young man by the arm.

“You interrupted our conversation, it wouldn’t be too polite if you only left one dollar.” I told him.

“Dude, look how shitty these drinks are.” The young man lifted the glasses up so I could see them. I looked down at them and couldn’t argue.

“Sorry man, you’re right.” I let go of him and turned back to Roger.

“How’s it going Larry?” I asked him, Roger that is.

The next hour was filled with pointless banter and endless interruptions by all the alcohol hungry students. I had meant to bitch to Roger about the bouncer but had quickly forgotten the whole thing. The crazy thing about mescal is that it is one of the few alcoholic drinks that is also a stimulant. Pepé and I had been drinking hard, but had not yet realized that we were well beyond drunk.

“Joh-nee, I’m going to pees. I’ll be back pronto.” Pepé told me as he stumbled his way to the bathroom. I decided to stare at something other than the shelves behind the bar so I turned around on the stool, to stare at the younger girls. I quickly saw one that caught my eye. She was a good-looking girl with chestnut colored hair; she wore tight blue jeans and a white fuzzy short sleeved tight sweater. I quickly stood up, grabbed my bottle and walked over to her. She was talking to some friends but I didn’t mind interrupting them. I stepped in front of her and began to speak.

“Hello bunny, my name is Johnny Redbone. What’s your name?” I asked her as I tried to only use words that I knew I could still pronounce at this state in which I found myself. She said something back to me, but I couldn’t understand her. It was pretty loud in the bar between the shitty jukebox music and the noisy drunken bastards laughing and yelling over stupid shit.

“You have nice teeth.” She said. I told her that my mother paid for a tall Greek man to straighten them out when I was a kid. She smiled at me. I don’t think she heard me. I grabbed her by her belt buckle and brought her closer to me.

“My name is Johnny Redbone and I think you’re hitting on me. I like your furry white sweater; it makes you look like a bunny. Are you a bunny?” I made her smile. “Is that a yes or a no? You have to be more direct with me bunny, I don’t like to waste time.”

“Are you trying to get into my pants?” She asked.

“You’re goddamn right I am. Is it working?”

“It is, so far.” She said as she smiled again.

“You’re goddamn right it is.” I smiled at her. She told me I had nice teeth again. The deal was set. She told me that she was in town visiting some of her girlfriends who go to the local college. She said she would ask her friends if she could bring me home with her. I said that was fine and that in the meantime I would look for my buddy, Pepé, to tell him that I was leaving.
I searched for Pepé, but couldn’t find him. It wasn’t a big bar, but Pepé wasn’t a tall man by far and this bar was full of North American hormonally enhanced grade A gargantuan humans. I quickly gave up and headed back towards “Bunny”. At this point, I realized that I was much drunker than I had thought. I stumbled for a second and felt a bit nauseous for a moment, after taking a deep breath, I felt ready to continue walking. I walked up to her and she told me to follow her. I could have asked her to go back to my place, but I have always preferred not taking women back to my home. I felt it best if they never found out where I lived.

“Bunny” tried to introduce me to her friends, but I couldn’t pay any attention. My mind was only set on one thing. At first I began to wonder if I could get her friends involved in what was about to occur, but my mind was not ready to work on a new plan. I was happy with how my birthday was turning out so far and was not going to push it. I hopped into the back seat of a late model blue Ford Explorer. Bunny sat next to me. Her friend drove and another sat shotgun. I placed her hand on my lap, just to let her know what this encounter was all about. After many turns and twists the SUV finally took us to our destination.

Once there, I was forced into having a semi-coherent conversation with “Bunny’s” other girlfriends; while this was occurring, I came to the realization that where I was about to spend the night was on a futon mattress on the living room floor with “Bunny”. I tried to speed up the process of taking “Bunny” to bed, but there was no room with a door to shut behind us, so we waited until all the others had gone to sleep. That’s when “Bunny” and I began to go at it on the mattress on the living room floor. After a couple of minutes, “Bunny” looks over and noticed that one of her friend’s doors was still open with the light on and told me to stop. I couldn’t care if all her friends were still walking around the living room, but I decided to be nice and listen to her.

So I got off her and rolled over on my back.

I woke up the next morning wondering where I was. I looked over to my right and saw a good-looking girl. I was happy to see that she was still good-looking in the morning, but I decided that it was time for me to leave. I got up and put my pants back on. I walked over towards the window and looked outside. I had no idea where I was, so I walked over to “Bunny” and woke her up.

“Hey, I have to leave. I’ve got to get to work.” I told her. It was true. I did need to get to work, eventually.

“Okay.” She said.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t know where I am. I need you to take me back to the bar. I can get to work from there.”

“Okay, just give me a second.” She got up and went into the bathroom. I put my shirt and shoes back on. I waited for her in the kitchen. She came out dressed and ready to go. We both went downstairs and into her car, it was a Rav4 or something like that, some small Japanese piece of shit. The ride back was a bit awkward since we had very little to talk about. Luckily, in no time at all we arrived back in front of Larry’s.

“Should we exchange numbers?” She asked me.

“We could.”

“Are you going to call me?”

“Probably not.”

“I feel so used.” She said.

“Well then, you should be happy. Many people live long lives without ever being useful.” I said to her right before I gave her a kiss and stepped out of the car.

I told you this story for two reasons. One is so that you would know exactly why I was walking back home in a drunken stupor and why my mind was working the way it was on the day I made the decision that I did. The second reason that I told you that story is because I don’t know if anything like that will ever happen to me again.

I don’t so much as travel, as I do escape.

I usually last about ten months in any one place I live. Eventually, I grow tired and discontent. I think about and process in a torturous manner all the events that have occurred in my life. I wonder about the decisions that I have made and whether or not they have been mistakes. I constantly force myself to continue writing, of one for fear of having wasted my life just to eventually give up on my passion.

Not finding peace, tranquility and stability, I often find immediate pleasures in less orthodox mediums.

This year alone, I have lived in California, New Jersey, and currently Spain. I have done this with very little money, few belongings, much stress, much fear, and some help.

I have focused my ideas on my current manuscript, which goes along well. The subject matter is a bit depressing at times and it gets to me, but it is my choice to feel obligated to emerge myself in the character. Unfortunately, I also emerge myself within the characters flaws, which
are an exaggeration of my own.

I can’t wait to finish it. I need a break.