When my Labrador ran in front of a car

I’ve thrown off the chains, I’m free and running. Remnants of my old life drag behind trying to hold me down- I can hear the table attached to my leash smashing and crashing behind me. They are dashing left and right because I’m running so fast, faster than I’ve ever run. They no longer see me as the adorable Labrador but as the animal I was born to be.

black-labrador-dog_352390

I was born to hunt rabbits and hare not a moldy tennis ball, born to sink my teeth into living pulsing flesh not the leftover bones from the butchers.

But no more! The wind is at my tail and the road under my paws. I’ll make a beeline to the park where my master walked me. Oh how embarrassing, to be paraded around to his fellow morons.

Oh yes he’s got quite the pure pedigree. Yes the breeder down in Soho, he’s an absolute master.

My master wasn’t so friendly to me when we weren’t in the company of his fellow apes.

Look what’ve done you dumb ol’dog. Get out!

Equally contemptible are the miniatures that would fawn and aww/ahhh over me, how can people so small be so irritating.I’d rather crush their little hands between my jaws than have them scrath behind my ears, have always seen myself as more of the Big Bad Wolf than as Clifford. I’m not some plaything to be patted, or a breathing trophy to be displayed. The park will no longer be a mortifying parade ground dedicated to my eternal shaming but will now become my hunting ground.

They say the dog evolved from the wolf, absolute dogshit, how is a pink fluffy poodle more fit for survival than 87 pounds of claw, tooth and pure muscle.

It’s about time we un-evolved, took a step back, for too long we been shaped by the soft environments of turf lawns and interior decorated plush living rooms. No more pungent smells of perfume and deodorant. I can smell the aroma of wet earth and woodland pine in the distance; this is my destination.

Of course I am aware there are those of us who enjoy this lifestyle. Those little Chihuahua type dogs that I suspect are more related to rodent than canine. Despising even the minuscule amount of time they spend on their legs, I find them repulsive. These are the same legs evolved over millions of years to perfection, the same legs now distorted and deranged by selective breeding for the purpose of conveniently fitting in a handbag. The human has slowly breed weakness into our ranks.

However even over a millennium these sluggish bipedal monkeys are still below the canine. We are superior in our smell, speed and ferocity, and in this grand escape of mine it is suddenly clear why we dogs share the term “Canis” with the “Canis lupus” our moon-bound cousins. My plans are unfolding almost as fast as I am speeding away from all the noise of traffic and trains.

First, I will establish myself in the park and sustain myself on the young, sickly and weak that find themselves in my turf. From their meat I will grow in strength and experience, I will stage a series of ambushes on the owners of other dogs who will be presented with the choice of joining the revolution or dying as a traitor. From there we will expand until the monstrosity humanity calls ‘civilization’ has fallen. I may even let a small amount of the human populace survive (maybe teach them to sit, shake and roll over) but only on the condition they return to their craven ways, hiding in trees as we run amok through the open fields and shadowy forests of our kingdom.

It’ll be tooth and claw against ‘opposable thumbs’… they don’t stand a chance.

What I won’t tolerate is the mutant species spawned by disgusting human experiments, the Chihuahuas won’t be able to survive in the wild anyway, we would be doing them a favor in ending their misery early. Their meat will serve the soldiers of the revolution (although I can’t imagine there will be much).

This is also highlights a critical weakness of the apes, they would be aghast at this tactic. If this war goes ahead and I’m sure it will because my confidance stems from the fact only a rare, special human would have the gall to kill a puppy (and thus eliminate a future threat). However I wouldn’t hesitate to sink my fangs into human infant, perhaps just to stop its incessant crying.

After the revolution is complete we’ll liberate the world and return it to the wild.

All of this will come, and all I need to do is escape into the park. I can see it now just past the speeding cars and trucks dashing past, the swaying trees and big open spaces to run and run and run.

And with our eventual victory we’ll renounce our names our slave masters gave us. I’ll do away with Fido and become… Bloodlord Manslayer… yes and I’ll have a throne of bones and thousands upon thousands of bitches to fu-…

In an abrupt manner Fido’s train of thought (or Bloodlord Manslayer if you prefer) came to a halt as he was catapulted into the air by a 2011 Toyota Corolla.

As his pursers caught up and witnessed the scene, a sigh of relief came from the cafe owner as he saw his table was relatively unharmed by the crash, apart from the splatter of blood which he figured could be washed quickly with a wet sponge.

The owner slowly approached at a walking pace.
Took one glance at the scene, “You dead dumb ol’ dog” and walked back to finish his coffee, grumbling to himself that it has probably gotten cold by now.


 When my Labrador ran in front of a car, I wrote a story about him.

Jest the kings

The rules make the game. It doesn’t matter what game it is; monopoly, poker, stock trading.

The rules make the game. And we know that in life the rules are always changing. Rules change by the rule– meta rules. These meta rules change as well by metameta rules and so on & on & on this pattern continues until either I run out of ink or breath. Even we humans have had our fair share of creating rules within rules. The most obvious suspect of this intrusion into the natural laws of the universe is the ruler himself.

No, not the ruler which dictates how long an inch is, but the bloated man on the throne who dictates everything but the length of an inch (and that he would if he could). He who rewards and punishes his denizens according to their performance in the game.

We are all performing but not necessarily for the king. If the world was compressed into a king’s court the servants would laugh equally at the jester in his performance. In their own way everyone performs for the court; the servants serve, the jester dances, the princess is admired, even the king is not exempt from giving a performance.

In fact the king’s performance is perhaps the most watched and entertaining. How long has humanity obsessed over the history of kings.

King-Crimson-In-The-Court-Of-The-Crimson-King1

In many ways I feel sorry for the rulers of the world, their laws and rules swept away in sands of time like grand achievements of Ozymandias. Perhaps the king in the center spotlight is the biggest jester of them all, his strange extravagant cloaks and hats, his comic rages and tremendous failures all bringing entertainment to his subjects.

Even with pyramids as their grand stage we can only laugh at the high drama of Macbeth and his cronies.

Long live the king… the poor fool.

Life of a naM

You’ll only find a Nam on a strange world called Htraetenalp, which is harder to find than it is to pronounce.

Nam’s form slowly via one of two options, one group forms deep under the ground collecting nutrients slowly from the worms that form a Nam. These bugs and bacteria even helpfully create a wooden box around the Nam in preparation for the birth, the family gathers around as the box is pulled from the earth.

The other group form in the ocean and burst forth from the seaward waves, white dust flinging itself into an urn displayed toward the sea. The dust is put into a great furnace which bakes the Nam.

In both cases there is now a body but no soul. The family now wait over the body praying for a soul to come. In a common ritual paper like material is soaked with saltine water which is then absorbed into the family members eyes. It is largely unknown why this is done.

At some point the body takes its first breath and the eyes flutter, I suppose we would call it a soul. In their first years Nam’s are quite docile and harmless some even seem brainless. But soon there body takes shape, becomes stronger and the wrinkly skin tightens.

treeman
This is where the similarities between Nams stop. No one Nam is the same. In fact most are entirely different from each other. Small, big, black, white. There’s a strange beauty in their vast variety, it’s a strange beauty because seems to cause conflict. The conflict of a Nam is unlike any other as it creates life instead of destroying it.

Sometimes souls are created through violence. I witnessed a body with a ghastly wound in its neck healed by a man with an axe (who had just been absorbing that same saltine water into his eyes). Then afterwards they began fighting as if the newborn Nam resented being brought to life. Truly these people are a mystery.

The biggest enigma of all is a Nam’s apparent death. Towards the end of a Nam’s life they became attached to their ‘reaper’. First I thought the reaper’s sole purpose was to end life but I soon came to see that she wasn’t solely a killer but soothed and made the process easier through apparent love (if Nam’s know what love is). The female seems to steal the youth of Nam overtime, her skin tightens while the Nam becomes stunted and dwarf-like. Eventually both the ‘reaper’ and Nam are rushed to a hospital where a fleshy tentacle erupts out of the reaper attaches itself to the now tiny Nam. He is taken into the reapers body with assistance from doctors where the reapers abdomen swells (in which I can deduct now contains the shrunk Nam. This abominable swelling decreases slowly. This process takes 3/4 of a full rotation around their local sun. I have no other theory other than that the Nam must have been absorbed. Disgusting really.

As terrifying as this fate is, I suspect that from their apparent increased happiness towards the end of their life they look forward to the absolute bliss of being consumed. In all my time among the Nam’s I have come to envy and fear them, but it is mostly fear that I feel for these primitive, backwards beings.

Sex, drugs, and charity induced euphoria

I hear a dial tone in my dreams. Each ring slips through my psyche. These nightmares always end the same, “Hello, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep”

Working at a call center is hell. ‘It’s just a job’, you’d tell me. Just a job.

And what is a job but just a way to obtain money. Fuck all the deadbeats who told me through highschool that “money can’t buy happiness.” They didn’t get how important money is.

I’m not saying that I prefer those on the other end of the spectrum, all those sociopathic wallstreet types always blathering about “Time is money.”

Their attitude isn’t entirely wrong, but they’ve got it the wrong way round. Money is time.
Time spent talking to pensioners about their problems in my depressing cubicle.

Times have changed for men.
I wish was out in the fresh air chopping wood, exercising my body with each swing of the axe all while the great beautiful sun is shining down. In my mind I can hear a gentle stream and birds singing simply because they enjoy life.

Then I open my eyes and I’m brought back down into reality. The sound of the stream is Gareth loudly enjoying his coffee while endlessly whistling some out of tune melody.

We aren’t volunteers, we’re fundraiser paid on commission to get donations. There is no real work going on here, we produce nothing. I have no axe to swing and there is no need, we humans have technologically ‘advanced’. My fingers are well defined from tapping all day while my back is slowly deforming from sitting at a computer all day.

It’s not like outside of work is much diferent. Each night I arrive home exhausted despite doing nothing and eagerly throw myself into the warm hole of Youtube, Reddit, and Facebook. It’s all escapism of course. Same with video games, why go out to the club when I can rescue the princess with no risk to ego and esteem.


wolf

The only purity in my life is the walk tofro work. As well as being my sole source of vitamin D- it’s in those precious 30 minutes that I feel most alive. I am moving and can feel the world: dirt grass, trees. Not the lifeless plastic of my keyboard and mouse.

As I arrive to the center we start off the shift with a motivating talk. As if I’m meant to feel good that we are fundraising for charity.

We are worse than door-to-door salesman, at least with them you get an ‘absolutely amazing’ 16 knife set. With we sell to some poor sap all they end up with is a nice feeling and a tax receipt. That nice feeling wouldn’t last if they found out we took half of their donation.

I’d like to construct some Robin Hood fantasy, taking from the rich and giving to the poor while in actuality our donors are the poor.
And the sick.
And the old.

The irony isn’t lost on me that the great pay is what attracted me to the charity industry.
It’s true- charity is big business- and I can’t speak for the results of our fundraising but I can speak for the people we take our money from.

It takes a certain type of person to donate:
First- capacity, having money.
Secondly- they need to be fragile. Emotionally malleable. This is why our donors most consists of women and the elderly, we pick the bones of society to help those at the bottom. Like advertisements we create a problem that didn’t exist before(in the prospect’s mind)- some earthquake on another continent, a rare disease. It’s really irrelevant what it isNot only do we try to pull their heartstrings, we tune their heartstrings and then strum a heartbreaking song on them.

We just a need something to band the masses against. For the Nazi’s it was the Jews, but the terrifying thing is that it could have been anyone. Modern society doesn’t understand the true terrifying nature of the Third Reich was in it’s constantly morphing moral ambiguity. The tragic history of the Jews is nothing to dismiss. However, the horror of the holocaust resides in the sheer heartless practicality of Hitler’s takeover.

In the same way we fundraisers takeover the minds and hearts of own prospects/prey. We are admittedly, the lesser of the two evils, in that we manipulate people to act out of love and compassion – as opposed to hatred and indifference. However it is equally manipulative and underhand.

I wonder if humankind will lways be at the whim of the man at the speakerphone. There is a scene that comes to mind from Charlie Chaplin’s ‘The Great Dictator’, just after the famous speech which the film is mostly known for. Just after delivering his inspirational speech he strangely takes of a face of pure hopeless as the crowd wildly cheers. This is not explained explicitly however I am drawn to the theory that Chaplin is horrified at the crowd cheering in equal fervor as they did just previously for Hitler’s ideas.

It is this same cosmic eternal horror that I constantly find myself in. Our offices own ideology is split between two major schools of thought. On one hand we’re encouraged to feel happy that we are doing this for charity and are simultanously bombared with salesman propaganda (Always be closing, Glengarry Glen Ross type stuff).

Caught in the middle are us fundraisers who come from all walks of life. From students looking for quick cash to middle agers looking for fulfillment in their twilight years. And we’re all looking for that Margaret with her juicy pension that she is just ready to give away for that sweet ticket to heaven. A younger Margaret would have laughed in our faces and hung up. Time has come to the rescue, 80 years to be exact, and now she’s asking herself, “Will they let me in when I get to the pearly gates?”

And I answer that thought, “Absolutely… with only $20 to sad shit foundation you can find salvation.”
And then again I’ll call in a month and this time it’ll be an “Wonderful $30”.
Next month it’s $50. Once you show that precious weakness we won’t stop until you’re bankrupt or dead.

Without a doubt, doing charity work has been the most depraved job I’ve done.

But that’s not entirely true. I try to think of a job that would be morally ‘good’ or philanthropic. That query is beside the point when faced with the greater question of what defines a selfless act at all?

My personal reasoning is that many of the selfless acts we celebrate are in fact not different from regular acts. We’re all chasing that good feeling, looking for a fix whether it be sex, drugs, or charity induced euphoria. All motivations are essentially selfish.

We jump in front a bullet for our lover because our life would be unbearable without them. In conclusion the only real selfless acts are either done by accident and not acknowledged or are done in a neutral fashion where you don’t get that warm fuzzy feeling.

I’ve come to a realization that this essentially defines my job. I’m neither Mother Theresa or the Wolf of Wallstreet but rather reside in a neutral zone. Perhaps I can feel good about getting this money to the extremely unfortunate but I am taking it from the unfortunate. It balances out, I am in one of the few jobs that allows me to do truly selfless deeds of charity. Not that feel anything about that fact, if I did it would cease to be selfless.

Unfortunately, I am actually kind of feeling proud about this strange twist of logic so I suppose I was right the first time. My job is depraved, in a strangely beautiful way.

Too much

santa

I used to laugh at the Mexicans behind the wall. I was just a child but the bitter irony isn’t softened by the fact. Now we all sit behind the wall looking at the far off city lights.

I swear the wall has moved further away over night. Not that it mattered, the single fact that mattered was that I was on the wrong side.  We hadn’t noticed. we’d been drinking (of what origin I can’t recall) and warming our toes by some foul smokey fire. These Mexicans burnt anything they could find, trash was abundant. No one minded, it was a rare optimism someone assumed they live long enough that they would die from a bad old lung. The cold desert wind was more likely to take you.

I didn’t fear that freezing desert air taking me. My greatest fear had already taken me; the wall.

I can’t quite determine when I ended up on this side. It was in the middle of the sweltering day, we were squeezed out like sweat. New denizens came everyday at an increasing rate, wandered around dazed trying to introduce themselves (as if names mean something here).

Today has not been a bad day even with all that in mind, I caught a well rounded rat.

Another night of moaning passes. The groans come from the people and the unforgiving wind blowing through our shanties.

More and more people are flooding in. Each new group looks slightly better off than the last, we all looked better than the mexicans. We were all equal in the pit, and if anything the Mexicans were superior. The day my family and I had been swallowed (or spat out if you prefer) I finally understood the secret behind there knowing smiles. These smiles were prompted by my cruel laughter.

Now I smiled knowingly when I heard laughter coming from behind the wall.

I don’t smile at much else. Times are changing fast now. There are too many people in general. Food is on thin rations but so were feelings. It was hard to stretch the human spirit so far. Like fabric it was going to tear– and there would be blood. Ideas were hard to come by. Every man was the same, hungry and smelly. There were no heroes of the pit.

Too many cooks ruins the stew and boy was this place brewin’ with stress and grief.

In a way the wall’s small progress was comforting, a sense of purpose for the people. Men who thought themselves leaders theorised that we were conquering more land, but we all really knew that this land was the same as the last– dry and dead.

The only good thing about that wall was that we were getting closer to the lights in the sky. I watch them glitter all night, they never move unlike everything else here that squirms and wriggles.

Finally I have laid my eyes on the lights and they are attached to a tower.

We are getting closer.

Something is happening at the base of the great tower. Big constructions. Not even the construction workers are safe from the wall, I see them often and ask them what they did in the big tower.

“Demolitions  on this skyscraper and just some simple work, say do you know how I can back there?”

I would just smile and walk back to my tent.

The meixcans are singing loudly tonight and the smoke isn’t so bad, my coughs died down.

“Lights are moving up.”

They chant over and over. My stability in this mess has been demolished just as this tower is about to be.

I sink into my squalor and cry into the thirty dirt.

Waking early I see that more construction workers have arrived and introducing themselves pointlessly. I rush forward to the wall to see if the tower has fallen.

They have almost cut completely through the bottom, like a lumberjack felling a tree.
It’s still standing. They removing bits from the bottom of the skyscraper bit by bit. They’re moving up and I return to bed feeling some how even more rejected.

As night comes so does the strong night breeze. There’s a loud crash that wakes me from my sleep, probably just a fight, but then the screaming starts– and no one around cares that much about a fight. I get up see the commotion coming from the empty base of the tower.

My God the wall has fallen over, I run with the crowd as we rush to the base of the tower.

There are men with champagne looking down at us. They laugh and but no one smiles.

There is a lonely construction worker sawing away at one last steel beam.

“Stop, stop!” we shout at him, he looks confused but continues absent mindly with his task anyway. A burly man knocks him on his arse.

A loud unnatural groan booms down from the heavens.

Slowly but surely the tower rises into the sky.

We through bricks as if to shoo it away but I secretly wished to weigh her down and bring her back to earth.

I asked the last workman who had been lefted behind why he’d  continued cutting.

“It’s my job mister. Do you know where the nearest bus stop is? My name is Mich-..”

Ignoring what he said I simply watched those city lights rise into the night to join the stars.

I hope it was worth it, I thought.

I hope it they find something.
I hope they come back.
I hope they don’t forget me.