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“He” was a man who internally was a little boy, traumatized by the realities and experiences of Life deep down to the core.
“He” could remember scowering the worn, golden fields looking for his lost love, only to find handmade cat traps made by a maniacal man referred to in neighborhood folklore as “Phantom”.
Yes, within the crying fields, “He” yearned for another chance to be given a map and the courage to find himself out of his lost ways. In the canal he yearned to be cleansed within the murky, still waters, as just ahead, he came to cylinder that led to “THE OTHER SIDE”.
“ Find your way home and play with your toys please.” The voice in HIS head said.
At 3 years old, “He” had an out of body experience and no one could tell him different. “He” awoken and screamed in fear, justified by a higher power that Life was going to be all right and strife usually only took one or two bites from the soul and psyche. In the canal, viewing the cylinder that lead to another side, the man/boy called “He” stepped through, hoping he would not be harmed or devastated in any further way.
The cylinder consumed “Him”, as packs of rats and abandoned afterlife DESIRED ANSWERS.
On the other side the boy became sturdy and realized that everything was temporary and God wanted him as much as the Devil; Strange to come to such realizations. That is when “He” became the Phantom, admiring humanity from a distance; It was more intimate to him that way and he was not as vulnerable; Until the Evening.
In the Evening, Led Zeppelin would blare throughout the seductive air and the skies would seep deep shades of purple and heavy delight; That is when the Phantom became all business. Distortion of all senses, people would fall one by one, as the Phantom would appear from unforgiving shadows and become elegantly intimate with each of his victims, holding each of them close, never forgetting the past; He preferred it this way.
Through cities, catacombs and wilderness, our Phantom came to crossroads where the divine drank, fucked and ate luscious grapes with the opposition, the unkind. Babies were born, ignored, subjected to madness and eventually set to fend for themselves. At first, it seems like things move so slow, but suddenly, you become horrified, realizing you are on a runaway freightrain with no fucking breaks.
“ Run Phantom. Run from all of this nonsense and dismay.”
The Phantom moved with grace and agility, running further and further away from where he grew scared and distressed, finding his way to Apt #30 within a building he use to know.
At the kitchen table, alone, sighing that sigh like one who knows judgement is hovering over them, our dear Phantom sips his last sip, wincing from the proof of the serum he ingests and the reality or lack of it.
“ POLICE!” The door comes crashing down as a squad of bold blue open fire with .357 Magnums, blowing holes, chunks and regret from “He”, The Phantom as things reach a crescendo before falling silent.
“Why didn’t you just find your way home and play with your toys?”
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( Inspired by Tom Cruise and The Church of Scientology.)
I had become famous back in the winter of 1999, having successfully consumed every narcotic known to man, and having fornicated with every female groupie within my “Famous World.” Other famous people around me had given me a nickname. (They called me “The Kettle” because I would get fired up sometimes and start whistling uncontrollably and demonically.)
“God, I swear I’ve seen you before,” would approach yet another fan.
“Yeah?” I would begin to reply.
“THAT’S BECAUSE I’M FUCKING FAMOUS!!”
That’s right, I’m the guy who stumbled and dropped like a ton of bricks shattering your child’s lemonade stand while blown out of his mind on Ketel One and sodas with extra lime carcass and within a Vicodin-glazed haze.
“OH MOM. LOOK WHAT THIS BAD MAN DID!” One of the 9 year old girls screamed in fear and dismay, as I realized at that precise moment saturated from head to toe in weak watered down lemonade, that justice had no fucking say when it came to the Famous!
“Alright, Mr. ? From now on, please refrain from getting loaded, stumbling out in public and terrorizing innocent children and dashing their dreams of operating a lucrative lemonade stand,” said the Officer.
“By the way, Mr. ? My wife is a huge fan. May I have an autograph please? You can make it out to your dearest fan, Gertrude.” [Pulling a shiny photograph out from inside my coat pocket and a grabbing a black permanent marker; I AM ON MY WAY INTO THE FAST LANE ONCE AGAIN.]
You see, it is not all fun and games having a famous face, having to hide out in underground bunkers and caves with “Other Famous People,” the ones who pick at their teeth for days with the same rancid toothpick. [Pause for station identification.]
I knew one famous couple, whose names I cannot disclose, who had sexual relations with a pack of smaller sized endangered porpoises. This ultra Famous couple actually had these endangered specifically shipped to them in from Special secret islands or some shit! [ Yeah, good old-fashioned porpoise fucking. NOW THAT’S WHERE IT IS AT!]
“When you become famous, you don’t just teeter back and forth upon the wall that separates Sanity from Insanity. YOU FALL OFF THE FUCKER, WAY INTO FAMOUS FAIRYTALE LAND!”
Endless, restless nights being trapped amongst demented, pretentious, porpoise-fucking, drug-addicted, identity crisis riddled amateur sex addicts that haven’t got the faintest idea how to perform proper groping techniques. (It all starts to get you fucking crazy, totally bat crazy, straightjacket and all!)
“WHO THE FUCK AM I?!” I would scream waking up in cold sweats.
AND YOU THINK THAT’S BAD? Wait and see how bad it really gets when you’re finally allowed out of hiding and back into the “Real world”, having to give more autographs, fucking smile all the time, get extensive coffee colonics every other day preparing for a “special part” all the while being chased by the anti-empathetic, Satan Worshippers referred to as “The Paparazzi.”
“DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT WE ARE ALL FUCKING LUNATICS!”
“Famous ones at that.”
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Happy Music Monday and taking orders for the new Ebook. Massive Tales of Suspense and Horror- Think Stephen King meets Chuck Palahniuk. Name your price at email@example.com through Paypal. Cheers, Layden