Excerpt: Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue

My name is Major Nathan Rage, for reasons I’m not sure of. I am told it is the name of a town in Iowa. Also, it may appear in the Bible. I have been told that by two different
Christians, and they should know. After all, there are a lot of tales of rage in the Bible. Also, I think it is the name of an ancient Egyptian hero who led an army of cannibal mummies. Anyway, I am a dream assassin. I enter the nocturnal vision condition of my victims and detonate their brains. I was recruited by a splinter group inside the federal administration as well as several covert companies to influence and manage the population. Here’s how it all began: during the years 1966 and 1967 a scheme titled Clockscan was established. It was officially discontinued in 1968. But we did not give up the intent of the scheme. We proceeded to secure the industrial aptitude to assassinate world leaders through the dreamscape. Utilizing reverse-engineered alien technologies, we placed brain management equipment in orbit for use on the inhabitants of Earth. Recently we used the equipment to project brain direction devices in the image of a Clock in the Air for application on the people of the planet. In short, we know what we're doing. OK, that may not be entirely true. Honestly, I’ve always WISHED to be a dream assassin. But I was never commissioned into the service, though I did study ilicit righteousness at my university. In fact, I am a former major in ilicit righteousness. I studied it because I believe in righteousness. I have a true affection for and superior knowledge of what is right, and I know exactly how to judge and punish the illicit people who send me into my many righteous rages and the resulting TIRADES! they so richly deserve. This is not opinion, but fact.

These fools of Exogrid Mission 2509, they are trying to kill me with their foolishness. They are utterly witless, these mentally deficient sacks of brain disease. There is not a unique and genuine idea among the whole lot of them – not even enough for a single plot. In the name of the non-existent deity to whom witless fools so often appeal, I swear that I shall soon launch an eternal blazing war against the no-plot fools. The power and glory of my blazing will frighten all of the inferior fools in the roundtables. Don’t possess a plot? Then why participate in Exogrid Mission 2509? Deity’s dentures, you are all idiot fauxtards. This is not opinion, but fact.

“Please help us,” they cry in the roundtables, these noisy young offspring of rodents and malfunctioning audio cassettes. They dream of being writers, but they do not deserve the moniker of “writer.” So I assassinate their unworthy dreams. I tell them they should come back to the roundtables when they are capable of powering their own stories. Like I do. I use darkly romantic vampires, sword-wielding elves, 19th century steam-powered computers and my superior knowledge of illicit righteousness. Also, these fools claim they can write large volumes of text, which I know is definitely not true. Example: one fool claims to have handwritten a large amount of text in a small amount of time. This is definitely not true. For I have computed the hourly requirements. They exceed my own past efforts, which generated a complete document of handwritten text. This was real. I know for a fact that no one can exceed my personal efforts. Therefore, this fool is a liar. In fact, all of those who claim to generate large volumes of writing are liars. This is not opinion, but fact.

And yet, I see that some of the witless fools of the roundtables congratulate these liars and implore them to take care of their wrists. I know how they should care for their wrists. Snap the bones! That way, they will be unable to continue writing their cursed untruths. If they wish to be on the side of illicit righteousness, they must prove their outrageous claims to me. I require that they aim a camera at themselves during their writing times so that I am sole judge the truthfulness of their claim. And as I am an expert in quickly handwriting large volumes of text (and the related letters and rules of illicit righteousness), I am uniquely positioned to judge them. But I digress. I am now focusing my dream assassin skills on The Thug. I refer to him as “The Thug” because it is the only moniker he merits regardless of illicit loopholes in case law. However, I must say that should this thief of a writer beat the odds and somehow secure a publisher, I earnestly believe that many more people – genuine people, not blood-sucking parasites, excrement-filled subhuman sacks, worthless dung-consuming insects, tirade-inducing anal sphincters like him – will be referring to him as The Thug as well. Honestly, I expect The Thug will hear many such statements – while standing in the legal docket before the barristers as they condemn him to word prison. I do not need to read his words to know that they are illicit. Because I am an expert it illicit righteousness, I can render judgment in such cases without reviewing the evidence. This is not opinion, but fact.

TIRADE! To date, the MORON author of “Marienbad My Love,” allegedly the world's longest novel, has somehow launched the most pathetic excuse this covert government dream assassin has ever observed of these bold pilfering methods. Certainly, The Thug’s pleas and justifications are presented on the heels of acknowledging -- misery, I grimly believe he was swanking about – his methods of pilfering, and doing it on the Exogrid roundtables. Does that resemble pilfering to you? Pilfering is the only thing it resembles to me. He's spewed much crap-scented idiocy in his excrement-consuming pleas, but most absurdly, in my vigilantly contemplated viewpoint, was his assertion that he's more or less manufacturing a unique creative method. I nearly injured myself snickering.

Now I momentarily set aside my responsibilities as a covert government dream assassin to chase this blood-sucking parasite across the dreamscape. He flees. The overseers stop me from properly pursuing him by signifying Exogrid Mission 2509 as a non-blazing location. I tell you, it’s not right. Announcement time: I am preparing to create a Blood Faith centered on affection for righteousness, which will allow me to function as ultimate deity and assert that no one can block my blazing transmissions or instruct me to moderate my stance. Why? Because the holy commandments of Major Rage’s Blood Faith prohibit such intrusions! No more will the overseers be permitted to stand in the way of my righteousness! Even without a new religion, I will prevent The Thug’s escape. I've appropriately abused him in the roundtables. Now I have him on the run. He fears me, I am sure of that. Look at how he attempts to diminish, to conceal, to avoid the shame -- but his attempts are fragile. The Thug is a failure -- and he always will be. He senses my superiority and refuses to engage me outside the protective confines of the roundtables. So I continue to pursue him, lunging for his jugular. Through my superior knowledge of illicit righteousness, I shall corner him inside his sorry, feces-filled excuse for a novel. I shall abuse him in the “Achieving the Money” string, where I will expose him for the sorry sack of feces that he is. Everyone will praise my righteousness as the ultimate deity of Exogrid Mission 2509. The Thug is living on borrowed time. This is not opinion, but fact.

The Thug initially noted that his pride eliminated the need for an excuse. Can you believe such a thing? What is the technique for transformation into such an extremely personality oriented being? I shall pursue him until Dec. 1 and then beyond. I kind of feel like it’s time to start focusing on what I'm going to do to him, not in my own writing and critical thinking courses. As part of my righteous investigation of this blood-sucking parasite I started reading “Marienbad My Love.” I was so traumatized by this affront to literature and ironic dissonance that I was unable to continue. He must be stopped. Call in the fair use and parody police! They will not be distracted by The Thug’s meaningless drivel, so much blah blah blah blah blah blah. … And let me make the case that I do not want The Thug’s wishes or best luck! And no, I will not show mercy. I am the ultimate deity of the Exogrid and assert that no one can block my blazing transmissions or instruct me to moderate my sphincter. The transformation begins with thuggish behavior. Will he ever be genuinely published? Surely not. This one is more personality oriented than the performer formerly known as the Regal One. Before encountering The Thug I did not expect such a thing could be true. Horrific. Horrific! HORRIFIC! I know all about mental illnesses. I am adequately knowledgeable in such matters due to my personal experiences. He is insane. I know this because his text does not include a single smiley-faced emoticon. The absence of this universally-recognized indicator proves that he is insane. I can make him flee the Exogrid Mission, possibly eternally, unquestionably for the present epoch. But it is point-black unattainable for me to do it as long as the overseers do not recognize my divinity. They do not care that The Thug is DOING IT AGAIN!!! MY TIRADE! HAS BEEN TRANSFORMED INTO A MASS OF CAPITALIZED rage. The Thug complimented me on my writing. What an insult. I do not need him to compliment me on my talent for writing. The compliment of a thug is by definition insulting. I am not the one breaking the law (and the rules of Exogrid Mission 2509). Appropriation is necessarily a violation of copyright law. Why can the overseers not see that his meaningless drivel is part of a ridiculous, excrement-coated defense? He presented "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" as an example of appropriation that is not violating copyright. But one person – yours truly – was stopped from executing an unrestrained attack on one anal sphincter, very much the blood-sucking parasite. He evades the laws. He claims he is not even approaching the edge of violating copyright laws! That was my point. But then The Thug says P&P is part of the public domain and therefore not protected by copyright. Moronic. Your point is blah blah blah blah … nothing! THE THUG!!! I DID SO WITHIN THE "MY PLAN" STRING HE ESTABLISHED!!! IN ADDITION, I ALSO FIRED UPON THE THUG IN THE UNSUPPRESSED "ACHIEVING THE MONEY" STRING!!! My cranium is hurting from his lies. They've taken The Thug’s transmission off line, which is everything I desired. And yet – nervous tension is defined as the inability to strike an individual. The novel is terrible. He should go back to college and take a few creative writing courses. I tell you, it’s not right. Announcement time: I am preparing to create a Blood Faith centered on affection for righteousness, which will allow me to function and continue to pursue him, lunging for his jugular. Through my superior knowledge of illicit righteousness, I shall corner him inside his sorry, feces-filled excuse for a novel. I shall not be distracted by his pleas regarding “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.” Rest assured, his attempt was a failure. He did not distract me. I went for his jugular. I have him on the run. I'm starting to conjecture he has contracted arcane mental illnesses as a result of his failures and pilfering. Observe his Exogrid home place, which I shall rip apart for others who are capable of appreciating my creation. If he transmits here, then I shall I fire upon him with the complete, unregulated rage of my roar. Forget the pleas of mercy from such a rotten condemned thug and a subhuman anal desire. It is time for the overseers to join forces and determine that they will suspend the rules of the Mission long enough to allow me to protect tomorrow and the rest of the contest. The Thug just keeps on with his drivel. “I wish you all the best of luck.” See what I mean? Meaningless drivel. And I am the dream assassin. Why should I have to tolerate the sorry sack of blood feces? I don’t, and I won’t. In fact, I await him. I wish to believe that The Thug has viewed my transmission. For that reason I am saying “Yes” and inserting triple exclamation marks!!! Can you believe he insultingly proposed that I need not protect my only Exogrid fiction sample in a different, comrade-chained chronicle? Here is my answer to his proposal: I shall send a ball of fire through his excrement-filled cranium. He shall not speak back to me. Major Rage’s Blood Faith prohibits such intrusions! No more will he violate the holy commandments of the roundtables of Exogrid Mission 2509. He interviews himself, just like a mentally ill crazy person!!! HE IS CAPITALIZING MY WORDS AGAIN!!! HORRIFIC! I know all about mental blah blah blah … it is mental nothingness! There are a number of ways he is nothing. And I will not allow him to cast his nothing eyes on my comrade-chained chronicle. I know what he would do. He would twist my righteousness into a series of run-on scenes that merge into other scenes with no clear break, the changes resulting in an unattractive sheen of innocence. I abhor his word rustling exploits and the way he attempts to justify his way through the “guano bizarre” territory of his crimes against righteousness.

He shall not pilfer my words! I share them only with my like-minded comrades. You may inspect them cautiously. Then look at The Thug’s words. They are NOTHING MORE THAN PERSONALITY STIMULATION! This is not opinion, but fact.

He has moved beyond violating copyright. Now he is fleeing my righteousness. He is close, just a few transmissions down the line. He tries to keep me from lunging for his jugular by inquiring about my feelings and the various illicit righteousness systems of the galaxy. I’ll waste no time on him. But I do care about the kiddos who still need to acquire some knowledge regarding copyright law. What an important job falls to me! Deity’s dentures, this is similar to those times of youthful yore when I would implore the teacher to allow me to avoid the shame of my turds. But this guy -- his attempts at shame avoidance are fragile. The Thug is a failure – he writes scenes that run into other scenes with no clear break or changes in dimension. I wonder: did Leachy really write this (that is, did he really “steal” this)? It is as if Leach wrote most of it in the Land of the Dead, perhaps using a 1920s typewriter equipped a brass spring and flesh-coated carriage. The shifts in time, the Exogrid 's DuD and U&D – I actually wish for this outcome. He has resumed transmitting on the far horizon. I was being nice up until this point. But no more. He is wrong. There is a large body of case law and legal writing on this subject. My point is that he shall me made to pay. He used the Jewell Effect to steal millions of words so he could have his name in a record book somewhere. This is not opinion, but fact.

I am superior, and he knows it. The Thug fears me, of this I am certain. Listen. He fears me, I am sure of that. Look at how he attempts to diminish, to conceal. The overseers stop me from properly pursuing him by signifying Exogrid Mission 2509 as a non-blazing location. The roundtables are his safe zone. One of his messages is identified as present time. With any luck, he'll enrage the overseers yet another time, and his subhuman anal sphincter will be compelled to stand trial. He shall not evade the rage of my righteousness! WORDS AND TRIPLE EXCLAMATION MARKS!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! Now he’s gone too far, attempting to redirect. I am not fooled by this mental case. He senses my superiority and refuses to engage me outside the protective confines of the roundtables. TIRADE! He is an idiot thug, and I believe he is too idiotic to in fact keep his distance from a covert government dream assassin. He shall be banished from Exogrid Mission 2509 forever.

TIRADE! The thug is a 100 percent flawed demon, and I'm starting to conjecture he has contracted arcane mental illnesses as a result of his failures and pilfering. Observe his Exogrid home place, which, if you inspect it cautiously, is NOTHING MORE THAN PERSONALITY STIMULATION! I know all about mental illnesses. I am adequately knowledgeable about mental health studies (I participated in a few) and extremely knowledgeable about the various illicit righteousness systems of the galaxy. I owe a friendly Exogrid-er a debt of gratitude for pointing out The Thug’s Exogrid home place. Or maybe a blight -- my pitable cerebellum! Joking. I suppose. Parenthetical aside: For more insight, please note my winking, smiley-faced emoticon. This is not opinion, but fact.

TIRADE! In his personal MK, the depressing, depressing cave dweller transmitted a personally-composed news announcement regarding his completion of last year's Exogrid Mission. He composed it as if he'd been addressed by a journalist. This is the same thing he did for his alleged press article on his main Exogrid address. He interviews himself, just like a mentally ill person with multiple personalities. There is no humor or satire in this attempt, either. I know this because his text does not include a single smiley-faced emoticon. The absence of this universally-recognized indicator proves that he is serious and therefore insane. This is not opinion, but fact.

He presented himself as so abysmally selfish and personality oriented that I'm genuinely entertained. For this contaminated thug presents itself as more personality oriented than the performer formerly known as the Regal One. You kiddos may not know what that means, but trust me – it’s bad! Before encountering The Thug I did not expect such a thing could be true. Horrific. Horrific! HORRIFIC! I am most concerned about the Polite Ones. Their reluctance to attack The Thug causes me concern. On the other hand, these kiddos need to acquire some knowledge regarding copyright law. What a bunch of fauxtards. Next I must approach the overseers regarding this bag of feces. Did you know that he converted one of my transmissions into a mass of CAPITALIZED words? Yes, and he inserted triple exclamation marks!!! and insultingly proposed that I did not realize that I have a talent for writing. He did this by complimenting my transmission. The compliment of a thug is by definition insulting. This is not opinion, but fact.

The Thug affixed my fauxing name to my own words! He attributed my words to me! Deity’s dentures, this is similar to those times of youthful yore when I would implore the teacher to intervene. “Leachy is doing unkind things to yours truly.” Time for another TIRADE! I genuinely dream of the day when the Exogrid Mission becomes a blazing space and if I should detect this d-worded moron on a blazing space I shall send a ball of fire through his excrement-filled cranium. They've taken The Thug’s transmission off line, which is everything I desired. Nervous tension is defined as the inability to strike an individual who opulently merits striking. I was told that bit of wisdom at some time in the past. I engaged in making fun of THE THUG!!! I DID SO WITHIN THE "MY PLAN" STRING HE ESTABLISHED!!! IN ADDITION, I ALSO FIRED UPON THE THUG IN THE UNSUPPRESSED "ACHIEVING THE MONEY" STRING!!! I HAVE SHAMED HIM!!! HE IS ON … WAIT A MINUTE!!! WHAT’S THAT? !!! IS HE… YES HE IS!!! HE’S DOING IT AGAIN!!! MY TIRADE! HAS BEEN TRANSFORMED INTO A MASS OF CAPITALIZED WORDS AND TRIPLE EXCLAMATION MARKS!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!!

Now he’s gone too far. I was being nice up until this point. But no more. First the capitalizations. Now the exclamation marks. I’ll have this feces-filled sack by the jugular yet. This anal sphincter is an idiot thug, and I believe he is too idiotic to in fact keep his distance from a covert government dream assassin. In fact, I await him. I wish to believe that The Thug has viewed my transmission. For that reason I am protecting my only Exogrid fiction sample in a different, comrade-chained chronicle. He shall not pilfer my words! I share them only with my like-minded comrades and others who are capable of appreciating my superior writing skills. If he transmits here, then I shall I fire upon him with the complete, unregulated rage of my roar, and forget the Exogrid 's DuD and U&D.

I actually wish for this outcome. He has resumed transmitting on the roundtables. One of his messages is identified as present time. With any luck, he'll enrage the overseers yet another time, and his subhuman anal sphincter will be banished from Exogrid Mission 2509 forever. The totality of my desire is for the overseers to join forces and determine that they will suspend the rules of the Mission long enough to allow one person – yours truly – to execute an unrestrained attack on one anal sphincter -- very much the blood-sucking parasite -- and I can make him flee the Exogrid Mission, possibly eternally, unquestionably for the present epoch. But it is point-black unattainable for me to do so without entering the dominion of complete defiance of the DuD and possibly the U&D. What can I say? Eventually I shall prevail! I know how to prevail. I know all about mental illnesses. I am adequately knowledgeable in them and I shall not be distracted by his pleas regarding “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.” He is without power. Now is the time to suspend the rules of the Mission. I just need a few minutes. I implore the overseers to signify Exogrid Mission 2509 as a blazing location. The roundtables will be on fire with his flesh and boiling with his blood. I shall convert his lame defenses into CAPITALIZED WORDS AND TRIPLE EXCLAMATION MARKS!!! WHAT, THIS AGAIN? TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! Now he’s really and truly gone too far. I was being more or less nice up to this point. Now nothing shall stand in the way of my unmitigated righteousness! Even without the permission of the overseers, I will take on this person with multiple personalities. There is no humor or satire in this attempt, either. I know this because his text does not include a single smiley-faced emoticon. The absence attempts to diminish, to conceal. The overseers stop me from properly pursuing him. He is an excrement-filled sack of failures and pilfering. Observe his Exogrid home place, which I shall rip apart for others who are capable of appreciating my righteous efforts. If he transmits here, then I shall detonate his brain. I will have him quivering in abject fear. And then I shall banish him from the Exogrid Mission forever. This blood-sucking parasite evades the laws. He claims he is not even approaching the edge of violating the spring and flesh-coated carriage. The shifts in time, the Exogrid's DuD and U&D – I actually wish for it. And yet, this dreamt-of attack is point-black unattainable for me to do it as long as he can hide from me. TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! TIRADE!!! Now he’s gone too far, attempting to redirect. I am not fooled. The Thug is DOING IT AGAIN!!! MY TIRADE! HAS BEEN TRANSFORMED INTO A MASS of opinion, but the fact is I know all about mental illnesses. I am adequately knowledgeable about mental health studies (I participated in several of them). The overseers have taken The Thug’s transmission off line, which is everything I desired. Nervous tension is defined as the inability to strike an individual who opulently merits striking. I was told that during a period of medically-induced brain trauma. What I read of the novel before closing the cover should HAVE SHAMED HIM!!! HE IS ON … WAIT A MINUTE!!! WHAT’S THAT? !!! IS HE… YES HE IS the one breaking the law (and the rules of Exogrid Mission 2509). Is appropriation a proper thing? Do you even have to ask? What is the technique for transformation into such an extremely personality oriented being? I shall pursue him until Dec. 1 and then beyond. I am powerful -- but his attempts are fragile. The Thug is a failure -- and he always will be. He senses my superiority and refuses to attack. I shall take him down with mental health studies (I participated in a few), extreme knowledge and an army of fauxtards. Next I must approach the overseers regarding my plan. It is correct. This is not opinion, but fact.

And he affixed my fauxing name to my own words! He attributed my words to me! Deity’s dentures, this is similar to those times of yore. Teacher was mean to me. I’ll take down teacher, too! This will be the only acceptable outcome. The Thug has resumed transmitting on the far horizon. That’s where I am going now. I shall take him down. I was being nice up until this point. But no more.

TIRADE! This is not opinion, but fact. He has moved beyond violating copyright. Now he is fleeing my righteousness. He is close, just a few transmissions down the line. He tries a record book somewhere. This is not opinion, but fact. I am superior, and he knows it. The Thug fears me. He is afraid to engage me outside the protective confines of the roundtables. So again I am subject to the dominion of the DuD and possibly the U&D. But someday soon I shall defy them. I shall lock him away in word prison with the other word rustlers. I shall enjoy seeing him in abject fear. And then I shall banish him from the Exogrid Mission forever. I shall compel him to stand trial. He shall not evade the rage of my righteousness! WORDS AND TRIPLE EXCLAMATION MARKS!!! Observe his Exogrid home place, which, if you inspect it cautiously, is NOTHING MORE THAN PERSONALITY STIMULATION! This is not a novel. I shall abuse him in the “Achieving the Money” string, where I will expose him for the sorry sack of feces that he is! Deity’s dentures, this is similar to those times of youthful yore when I would implore the teacher to force mercy out of the rotten condemned thugs and subhuman anal desires that consumed me. It is time for the overseers to join me in attacking this sack of feces. He is necessarily a violation of copyright law. Why can the overseers not see his meaningless drivel? Look at how he attempts to diminish, to conceal, to avoid the shame. The Thug causes me concern. They should take him on for good in a number of ways to stop him for appropriating text and violating copyright. I'm perfectly sure we can do it before we shut down his terrible novel for good. When we are done, we can drown the memory with alcohol. Horrendous. Fair use and parody are …. Blah blah blah. My cranium is hurting from his lies. They've taken The Thug’s transmission off line, which is everything I desired. And yet – nervous tension is defined as true. This reminds me of the early days of my career as a dream assassin. I got started in the dream assassin business as a new recruit in the Human/Alien Hybrid Wars.

When my unit went to Camp Venus, I thought it was going to be boiling hot up there. So
I shaved my head. Of course, we were dropped in the mountains above the crystal line, so
I froze for a good while until it grew back in. Anyway, with my insipid flesh, hairless
scalp and skeletal, gangly form, one of the dental psychiatrists compared me to an
unattractive bestial sci-fi character from a popular B-movie of the 1950s. My comrades in
arms had a good laugh at my expense – that is, until I slit the jugular of the dental
psychiatrist. No one laughed after that, I can promise you. From that moment forward
they referred to me strictly by my operational code: Rage70833. That’s when they
recruited me as a dream assassin.

I remember my first assignment. Shot him in the middle of his cerebellum about
two inches below his visionary state. I was surprised to see his brain matter was pink, not
gray. His eyes went out, and he fell into a dream. Bits of brain matter all over my hands,
reaching for what I needed, sweeping gray steel film canisters into a duffle bag of brittle
yellow newspaper clippings, used condoms and a box of psychoblaster shells. I slid the
canisters into my waistband and stepped into the corridor, disappearing into the crowd.
You can read about this incident and others in my exogrid journal, “Major Rage’s
Digest of Data.” Why did I pick that title? I like the word “digest.” You see, when I enter
a person’s nocturnal vision I actually consume their brain tissue. Tasty. When I die I want
to become a cannibal mummy, eating all of the many people who were unkind to me in
life.

You’ll notice my journal includes a picture of me taken at the Uranus Spaceport
(which I will post an entry about, when I get around to finishing it) giving the
psychographer the thumbs up, with my nonchalant, vision-protecting spectacles on my
forehead. I’m wearing my favorite Boba Fett Underoos T-shirt, which really shows off
my just-starting-to-develop exoskeleton. I hate cicadas and I hate that we are all
becoming insects, so I don’t know why I have that picture. But I digress.

The totality of my pending strangle hold cannot be reversed. He pleads for clemency. I offer nothing – no delay till Dec. 1, no delay till anytime. I have The Thug on the run.

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You wouldn't happen to have a six-fingered girl or something, would you? And the names aren't fixed but there you are. . . This is your bloody fault!! How is it MY fault?? Did I chop off that sixth finger? I do believe it was Cheryl. Now she keeps it in a little jar next to her Luck Charms. There’s a real unhappy guy out there somewhere, walking around with only ten fingers. Talk about killing your darlings. Maybe we could stitch it back on him. If only we knew where to look. I hope Cheryl’s finger-chopping days are over. I’m going to see her tonight. It's not just that she was deeply closeted - she had a summer home in her – how do you say it? You say hi. She'll think you're here at Cheryl's. Exactly, then she'll have images of lesbian threesomes in her head. Ew, gross. How do you know it’s gross? Cheryl could be just as hot as Jeri Ryan or John Barrowman. Can we stop talking about Cheryl’s deeply closeted sexuality - she had a spring break experimentation in Narnia. One time, one severed finger. Enough already. I actually laughed out loud when I heard about that. I don't have a plan to get into her Luck Charms, but if, when I do, this story fits. I am most definitely adopting it. Don't have any to contribute of my own. It is all over. She's as talented as Mike Angelo. Who Mike Angelo, the painter? You mean Michaelangelo? Mike, Michael, what's the difference? Dude, you’re an idiot. A sixteen-year-old girl has singlehandedly put us into orbit around Uranus. You mean hers. Whatever. I was all like BAM BAM POW POW. I make a gun with my fingers. BOOM BOOM POW POW. I've got that boom boom pow, dancing awkwardly. I smell like poptarts. When we get to lunch, I'm gonna sniff you dumbass. Jesus Christ. You just said it. . . . What I said was shnorklemuffin we all make elephant sounds, okay? I love you Brieeee. What about me Courtney? Well, Brie does top you Maggie. See, Courtney doesn't even care about you Maggie. I didn't do anything. Ok. Now I'm really done. Take it as reference, inspiration, part of you. . . all of them work! Hey, it's mushy. But it will get harder.

* * * * * *

I am discovering something terrible in the darkness. There is a live butchering in progress. And I think I am the killer. Look at me hovering over the body. It’s a novel, but it is not mine. Not yet, anyway. A feeling of dread and horror comes over me. I am gutting a favorite work, John Updike’s “Toward the End of Time.” I am choosing the tastiest cuts even as a globe of jellied fire continues to pulse in the chest cavity. Even now, the heart of the novel pulses on. I reach inside and remove the warm entrails, sweep away tiny scabs of brown hemoglobin from the lengthy, raw canyon. Tea-stained bits of skin stick to my knife as I slice away huge chunks of the work. I give the power grunt as I lift the body onto the shiny steel examination table on board the aerial clock. Look at the corpse. Even in death it is still an inspiring sight. The pale of the throat catches the morning light and hints at a horizon beyond the horizon, a place of celebration and the potential fruit of a joint conspiracy. (It could be true!) Even as a solo effort, I can already detect the vigorous, fertile scent of conception. Sure enough, the fetus of a new work begins to form. The door of a tiny Philip K. Dick clock opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He comes out fast, straight at me. I am looking down, my brow wrinkled in thought. I glanced up, and the blue head catches me squarely in the eye. Ow. Down I go, knife and entrails and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment Kabuki Blue pauses, his jaw set rigidly. Then he goes back inside the manuscript, back to his work. The door snaps tight shut after him. I lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, my head bent over to one side. Nothing moves. A slight breeze stirs the ashes that swirl over the corpse. The room is completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of Kabuki Blue. I look out the window. A new spring has arrived, but way too soon. Tiny insipid insects mistakenly hatch, caught in a constricted band of the space/time continuum on top of the tarmac and under the iron gray winter of dark birds, their plaintive and throbbing cries dry and crumbling like ancient mummy flesh. Their mournful undertones crumble my cinder-smudged brick heart. It can't possibly be springn yet. What have I done? A narrow insipid line of charcoal tarmac heaven heats up the galactic highway, which is beginning to glow and pulse a dull red. I need the companionship of the galaxy of creators. But I have been denied membership in The Brotherhood. So I fall into a flattened black star spiral and see something flicker on the horizon beyond the horizon. Look, the fetus of time. He has no use for entrails. Self doubt is a monstrous concept. My creation has no time for it, no time for me to feel blue. Spring has arrived, even if it is a defective spring. Or perhaps especially so. Nothing can die in his place -- nothing except (I hope) my monstrous doubts. They are consumed in the flames of the space/time insects that swirl about and come over me like a bruised cloud, blue veins of lightening crackling inside like a spirit trapped in a mason jar. No wait, that’s not it. That image does not fit here. I try again. I am gutting a favorite heart. Yes, that’s better. Kabuki Blue leans close and cuts into the corpse. I go at it, too, knife in hand. We are blood stained up to the elbows. Then the eyeball mistakenly hatches. Spring has arrived. But it’s still the false, empty moment. I experience a feeling of dread and denied membership in The Brotherhood. A live butchering in progress. This time I am butchering myself. I am cutting into my own eye. Ow. Down I go, knife in hand. My eyeball mistakenly hatches. Little birds fly out, a beautiful smear of color against the morning sky. I catch a brief glimpse of something beautiful, but then it disappears. I am caught in a constricted horror. It comes over me hard. I am gutting the morning light, hints of pink and gold color the horizon. The clock door opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He is reading his favorite novel, John Updike’s “Toward the end of Time.” The cover is beginning to glow in the iron gray winter. He comes out fast, straight at me.
.....
I took a piece of pilfered writing and an excerpt from my own writing. I ran them together through a cut-up engine, deciphering a new text. Then I took a page of William Burrough’s writing, and lined it up with what I already had, and did the same thing all over again. What’s that? No, I do not copy other writers' words. I RECYCLE other writers’ words. I use the same words used by many other writers, but I put them together in a new and unique way. Burroughs said “words don't have brands on them the way cattle do. Ever heard of a word rustler?” I agree. Who can lay claim to the word “of” or “and” or “dream”? They belong to everyone. Writers just borrow them for a little while. I can borrow Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” and mix it up with the newspapers. I can and I did. Well, I didn’t, but I plan to. Soon. You may be a writer who objects to this technique. Perhaps you feel it is not writing in the normal sense. No problem. We could call it something new. The idea for a cable TV show is beginning to form. How about this: “Pimp My Novel.” First installment could be a hot rod makeover of “Naked Lunch.” Why not? Burroughs was a word rustler. It's widely known that he used sections of text lifted from various copyright-protected works, ranging from pulp sci-fi novels to newspapers to T. S. Eliot. I could appropriate the work of an appropriator. Actually, I already have. But I don’t really like the good stuff by the famous writers. I am drawn to the flawed. The first drafts of the bad, awful writers and the broken world of chat rooms where they hurl themselves against the unmovable wall of the Pimp My Novel technique. People in pain, killers of good moods. That’s where I find my inspiration. And fan fiction! What could be better raw material for a word rustler than a work that is based on another writer’s original creation? The result of rustling words that have already been rustled is a unique literary creation. With that said, all of you are certainly free to mix it up with me, insisting that I am not engaged in a process possessed of moral correctness. The defender of the victims of appropriation says I am not a genuine writer. I do not create. My work is nothing. Not a bit. Not an iota. Not literary reality. I claim the appropriation method is ideal for applying to the work of others who claim such moral superiority without room for doubt or another equally valid truth. I turn their words against them, creating something totally new and unique. Change it up, make it my own. They’ll never know. Well, maybe they will now.
This is the way cattle rustlers do it. Create a brand that can incorporate the original brand. Put your own brand on top of the old one. You get a new and unique creation. I know I can take Beckett’s Godot brand and make it my own. In fact, the pilfered writing has already been rebranded several times. That’s right, I rebrand my rebrandings! Soon there is nothing but jibberish. And yet – perhaps a new meaning leaks out of the seemingly unreadable mash. You may say you don’t really like the grammatical errors. You must put aside your school marm sensibilities. Look beyond the subject-verb mismatches. Explore the deeper truth of the method, the result of the rustling and rebranding of words. Find the truth that was not part of the other writers' herd. I delve into the insanity of the chat rooms where they hurl themselves against my stolen lunch. Why not? William, I think of you and I smile. It doesn’t matter if the truth is not recognized. I am certain it will leak out of the mash of words. The truth is in here, somewhere in these 250,000-plus words. I turn their words into a new truth. I am actually drawn to the copyright. It provides me with the guidance to know when I am done with the rebranding process. Can the original writer see his or her own work in my writing? If not, then I am done. Stop here. Another episode of Pimp My Novel is over. Next week: “Godot’s Lunch.” Actually, it is a thinly veiled Frankenstein story. The mad scientist is actually a kind man, but terribly misunderstood. A flashback to writing class. This is the place where they hurl their epithets, a room for the superior argument that leaves no room for competing views. That is the only truth for them. There is nothing new and unique. They do not realize that the novel they worship is dead. It no longer functions. They are performing CPR on a corpse. But I am creating life out of death. I stitch together the amputated ghost parts, strap it to the steel lab table and hook up the electrodes. A jagged bolt of blue strikes the metal tower on the roof, sending the life-giving charge down the wires and into the body. The spark of life! Hands and arms twitch, eyes open. My creation rips free of the constraints, goes on a killing rampage. But it’s really not so bad. If only it had a mate. Perhaps a work of fan fiction. I manage to work in some other writings, too, as my modus involves grabbing and pilfering. And certainly I do claim the equivalent result as my say, my final word of the moment, for any works I select. This is my form of fan fiction, folks. This is the sane way to pay tribute to the writings of others while creating something totally new and unique. Change it up, make it your own. Parody helps, but the best defense is to ensure that the final product is substantially different from the original source materials.

This is the story: I am a full-size pilfered robot man. I am the monster created from ghost novels AND I am the creator of the monster. I have made myself. Who knows? It may even be true...