the Comic Misadventures of LeRoy Jenkem

“Some Comic Misadventures of Lee Roy Jenkem” originally © 2008, this edition is hereby © January 25, 2016 by its author: Jonathan Barlow Gee www.benpadiah.com

this piece of writing is a Junky G. joint for: Victor Xavier Paez.

insanity clause #23: Please do not share with others the web addresses for direct download from my site that are for sale there. However, once you have a copy of any one of my works, you are allowed, by Jonathan Gee, the author of said work, to copy it and distribute it freely. If you claim you wrote it, or that you came up with the ideas for it yourself, you should be challenged to determine if you can prove your claim with knowledge of the material superior to my own. If you can, I will concede the work to your credit, but if you cannot, then the work will remain both of ours to teach and give to whom we choose.

Lee Roy Jenkem

Sunday, February 10, 2008 my life as a bus-driver Current mood: crappy my life as a bus-driver by: leroy jankum At the end of the day, I am having a nice cold beer, and thinking back on over events of the today.

Mankind used to have long arms, I mean, they used to drag their knuckles on the ground, like beasts, like gorillas. But now it's just kids.

And everywhere I look there are more and more of them. The kids, I mean. Each every year their parents make more and more of these little dipshits, who are just gonna take my friends' jobs when they grow up and graduate from Yale.

I think I'm going to kill again. Not like in the war. But like that. Yeah.

Here we go... wish me luck... ahhh, a fewer less brain-cells.

That was some good jenkem I coked up today. I invented the drug-craze for this in America. It was me, Lee Roy Jankum, for whom the substance derived its name. Back then I was a chemist. Real smart guy. Piece of shit, just out of college and workin for Sandia Labs up in Washington DC. Thought I was haught shit.

They say you can get tapped for skull and bones at any age. I was out of college, and didn't even graduate anywhere prestigious, so when I scored highest out of the tested candidates applying at Sandia, they took quick notice of me.

But when the kids start dying, it won't be my fault. I've paid back my penance. I'm a bus-driver now. I drive a bus. That's all I do.

And now the voices in my head leave me alone most of the time. I drink from aluminum cans. I stay pretty much distracted with my day-time soaps. I watch alot of Doctor Phil, but I also like court-shows.

I forget what my original name was. I know they took it from me when they called me up to CIA headquarters that Wednesday. I had never seen so many people

needlessly killed as on 9-11. Even in the war. It was senseless.

Until that day. But when they put the tape over my eyes and made me watch what they showed me next again and again... Oh God, it was so horrible.

I saw my invention turned against me! I saw it becoming a justification for the coming epidemic, and the beginning of their plans to enforce martial law. When they come for us, to take us to the camps, now, it will be my name to blame, because it will be the last words you will ever hear: "We've come for your Jenkem."

-LeRoy Currently listening : The Ultimate Hits ( Garth Brooks )

By Garth Brooks Release date: 06 November, 2007 7:22 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment Monday, February 11, 2008 there’s a warrant out on me!

Current mood: crappy I go into work today, like usual, no funny business, just to do my job.

I'm up at the water-cooler getting some coffee and Jill from reception comes up to me, in front of Tony and Sam and the whole gang and tells me, I admit she pretended to whisper it to me, there was two cops, "detectives" she called them, up front, and that they was lookin for "Mr. Jenkins, Mr. Leroy Jenkins." She said to them for me that she would look and see if I'd come in yet, and she told me Jesus loved me and knew I'd do whatever I thought was the right thing. Jill's okay. She's okay people.

So, I, real calm like, all full of Jesus Light from Jill, and I walk out to my bus like everything was normal. I figured, I'd have just enough time in case that new guy, Enrico the wop, was to go rat me out. He's been busting my balls. Well, it turned out he didn't, and I got in my bus and drove home. And then I got on the internet.

I looked myself up in the court-house records online. Shure enough, there it was write there in black and white (and some other colors too). There's a warrant out for me in Collier County, Florida. Apparently... and I say so advisedly of my own two years in latin, they think I invented some new drug they claim is "popular among young people." The drug does have my same name, but I didn't do it. I'm innocent, it's all a set-up by tthe boys in the bureau. Once I quit I never should have told em what I know. While they won't get me now. Now I don't know nothin. Now I know what knowing nothing really means.

Since I had to leave right away I picked up Denise from school like usual and rushed her to her mom's house in Burlington. Then I immediately went to the bus terminal. I only brought my laptop and three suits. I figure if I can get to Detroit, I'll be okay. I know my old fbi contact buddy lives there. I brought his address with me but I can't call him till tommorrow once it gets light. Now I'm holed up in a motel-8 along the freeway. I can hear the cars out there.

God I hope they dont go harass Jeany. If they harass her in front of Denise what like they harassed Jill at work, made her say such nasty things. In front of Daryl too.

Daryl was there. Ah well, I'd better get some sleep.

LeRoy. Currently reading : A Brief History of Time

By Stephen Hawking Release date: 01 September, 1998 3:25 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment Tuesday, February 12, 2008 one night in a Zambian jail...

Current mood: crappy using the implant chip they gave me in the agency, I reversed the tracking signal, and jacked the sensor into my laptop. I set the alarm to register anyone approaching within 100 feets of me what are using a tracer on my location and put my snub-nose revolver under my pillow. If they come for me in my sleep, they won't take me without a fight. I'm a good-livin American!

I sleep for about a half an hour before the implant tracer alarm wake me up.

Someone was coming, I figured, so I bailed. Turned out to have been a false alarm, or else they would have got me for sure. I set the sensor signal wrong and it traced itself. Since I set its power to recycle every 20 minutes, after about 20 minutes it went off. I have to admit I panicked. I actually took the shower-curtain down to use like a harpoon if they burst in suddenly. It was insanity.

Butt the old reflexes from my training kicked in still. I remember the war sometimes, and when I first met Jeannie. She had such sparkly eyes and such light soft hair. The day we found out about Denise was the day I was shipped off. And I went right to combat...

That's when they were going to pay for me to medical training. I remember the training kicked in the second I saw combat. Within fifteen minutes of disembarking, I saw more fatal casualties than I could count. But I never lost my grit. I'm Leroy Jenkem, damnit! Three generations the Jenkems have been military men. And alcoholics.

We play to win. And win I did in the end. I got transfered to a chemical weapons lab in Zambia. It was underground, and I dont mean just "hush hush," I mean it was buried under Mount Kilamanjaro. And they had all the amenities. Air conditioning was the least of my concerns then. But I was missing time with Jeannie and Denise was being born while I was working in that stink-hole town. Did you know they have open sewers in Zambia? Neither did I. But I do now. Thanks alot, stinking town.

That's where they will say I started this. But I'm just a bus-driver. I drive little kids around from school all day long. I have to remember to keep reminding myself of that fact. I haven't done anything to be afraid of being busted by any local John Laws, and so long as I keep the advantage of camoflage, I will see any agents coming.

I'm a zebra, but they're the leopard. If they do see me, or if I move slow...

So I have to keep my eye on every corner. But I'm not afraid, not I, not LeRoy Jenkem!

Currently listening : ...And Justice For All

By Metallica Release date: 25 October, 1990 4:57 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, February 15, 2008 WWJD? Current mood: crappy this morning I had to kill three men in their sleep. I had to do it. I had no other choice. It was them or me. At least they passed peacefully. I slit their throats without waking any of them up. and now the voices in my head are back. The victims of the dead they are. I tell you there is no more fearful hell than this. I am literally pulling out my hair by the handfulls.

I want my Liberty back. I want my Goddamn Rights! I'm a goddamn American citizen, I'm a goddamned civilian now, and I want my goddamn rights back! ... the voices in my head are getting worse...

Keep it together LeRoy, keep it together. Theyaren't real, they aren't reall ythere... it's just all that... WWJD, WWJD??

I have to keep asking myself that. That question is very important. And Hermes too.

Or even Pythagoras. Ole 322. What would any of the Great Sages have done had they been me? Weren't they all equally guilty of youthful ambition? Of thinking themselves Gods on earth, Gods among men, Gods who control the future farte of all mankind? Yes, yes they are. I have to reemmber to keep my mind focused on that Good Jesus Energy, get that ole Holy Ghost moving throgh me again! If I'm gonna make it to Detroit I have to make it as far as Kansas, and I can't get there if I have to keep heading west. I hate the mid-west. There's no cover here, no shade, no shadows, no cover. I half to walk for seven miles between two clusters of trees. I am through with hitch-hiking. If I don't get a ride in the next ten minutes, I'm going to have to kill the next person who comes along. *** I keep hoofing it, and I slep in a ditch off the side of the road. I got to Kansas, and ate in a diner. I'm lookin real shabby, like a homless but it's good cover. I can bledn in and I ate my meal like a prisoner, and nobody bugged me.

They don't know. They don't know what's coming. What the government is planning.

How they're planning to use my good name, drag me through the sewage....

And it's all for martial law in the US, martial law in our lifetimes.

God, I reember cutting the skin offr abbits in my uncle's bran when I was thirtteeen.

And the way it screamed... well, it's just like they saw in the movie about Hannibal "Cannibal" Lecter. Not Red Dragon, but the good one, the first one, Silendce ofthe Lambs. I think it's like that. I think it's gonna be like that.

That's how it was in Zambia. God, Zambia. I'd almost forgotten Zambia... voices are in the shadows nowand the shadows are beneath the trees, and the wind is in their leaves...

People aren't really that advanced. hey have a long long history, but it's like Jesus told Nebuchadnezzar, the feet are clay. In the beginning, if they take away from us what we've had since then by reducing us to savages, they won't rob our human dignity though, we are still a stong-minded, strong-willed people. A good clan.

And I have my training, aand hey have theirs, and everybody has God's training and the whole world is clear. That's what I missed most in Zambia. The clear air. The air is clear here. I'm out in the wilderness of middle America living off my laptp in a backack and all I've had to eat in three days was a cup of faggy cappucinno and some sausages. I'm gonna half a heart-acttck before this thing is over.

And don't think the thoght of just turning myself in hasn't offired to me either...!

But I'm LeRoy Jenkems and I ain't goin in without a fight! They gonna have to identify me by my danetal records since they won't take me in alive! I'll blow my own brains out before they could take me in, and they know that. That's the only chope I have. That's the only reason I'm not already dead. I know "too much." They need what I know.

Little sdo they know, little lambs, how misguided. I've killed every last synapse in my entire neural net. It's all fried-wiring up there now. Scrambled like those eggs I had with sausage pieces those were good. It wouldn't be bad to see their faces, but it they take me in, I won't survive. They'd kill me then, they'd have to, if they dound out i was worthless as an asset. Strung out, bugged out, and left out in the cold.

I am tryng not to think about Denise. I am trying not to worry about here and Jeannie. I hope they've gone somewhere safe. I hope they're doing saef and well. I pray for them to have a Jesus Blessing. I pray that thay are safe.

If I'm luucky they thought to talk to Tom in the fire dept. If I'm lucky they've emptied out that safe-deposit box I always said had bonds for Denise's college in the event of my death. I hope they talked to Tom. He would know what best they would need to do.

I check into a motel-8 with my last of my money I left with in town. I still have me some travller's cheques, but if I use them I'll show up on the grid, and we can't haldf that. I feel like I'll nver be safe again, and It's anly just beginning.

-Leroy Currently listening : Genocide & Juice

By The Coup

Release date: 18 October, 1994 2:49 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment Saturday, February 16, 2008 Detroit Current mood: crappy So I catch a ride with a trucker and sleep in his cabin. He doesn't even poke me, just goes into te diner. Doesn't even bother to wake me up. That's trust. He must have seen my ring. Where I'm from, we Americans still stick together like glue. Just like glue.

February 16. Today is Denise's birthday. She planned to have a big birthday party, and they invited alot of people. I only hope those Agency fucks just leave them alone for today. Just for today. That'sall I hope. It's all I pray.

So I wake up and find myself in Detroit. Very unpleasant predicament you find yourself, Mr. Jenkem. You've neglected all this while to call ahead to the safe-house phone number. Now you're just going to walk in off the street? Well? Why not? I look like a homeless derelict after travelleing for so many days straight. And now I'm finally here. And it's my daughter's birthday. My daughter, Denise. And I love her.

More than life itself. So for her, to clear the good Jenkem family name, for her bright future, I march right up to the door of the 4th street Salvation Army rec centre and go right in.

Inside it's quiet. Downstairs I can hear kids in a gym playing basketball. A blind man taps with me his cane. I turn around to see him and see he has no legs, he is on one of those cart-wheelies. And I say to him, "Bob's your uncle," and he says, "I thought you looked like one of us." I smirked at his blind-imposter routine, and he smirked back, giving me the ole Ray Charles once-over. "Where can we go?" I ask. "I need to talk."

He ushered me into an elevator and I went up to the fifth floor. Before the elevators door open though, a voice came on in the elevator and sayd, "welcome to the Fibreoptic neurology-scan software system's automated voice menu." I looked around like someone was gonne pop out of the walls. It was a test.

"If this is your first visit in the last year..." I press a button on the rickety elevator key-pad. "if this is your first visit in the last 5 years." I press no. Then the scan begins. I knew they kept brain-scan records in the FBI since it was integrated under CIA funding through George's Dept of Homeland Security, but I didn't realise it was so high-tech. And for somethoung so pointless. I could have just had one "bad" cop delouse anyone who walked in on me. But that's me. LeRoy's guts, talking.

There was some flashing light thing in the elevator car and then the doo r open.

"Impressive, " I grumbled, "get it from aliens?" The man behind the counter chekled.

He was behind a bullet-proof counter in a stale-aired government office. So he could afford to chuckle. "Did that thing just scan me?" He chuckles again. "No, I need to know, I have a pace-maker!" "Sure you do, buddy. They all do." He gestures me to "door number second to the left, numbered 5," with the tip of his pen, then goes back to his cross-word. More silence. How psychologically well-structured. I could feel the Agency presence in their new modus.

I go over to thed oor knowing already what will be behind it. It's like going to the dr.'s office. They sit you down in the waiting room, then they take you back and

weigh you, and stick their thermometares up your rectum, and only then does the doctor even come in, let alone later when you get the bill!!

Two men in Sears suits and sunglasses acting like they haven't been waiting all day in the room, just waiting for someone to walk in off the street like I just did because it is their job to delouse them. So when I walk in they stand up and sit down and I sit down.

"What ya got, ole LeRoy?" "What do you want to tell us?"

"You know, LeRoy, you don't mind if I call you LeRoy, do you? You know, you've been a cold contact for ... ohhh... what would you say, Bob? About...."

"About three years," Bob chimes in looking up from an open manilla file.

"About three years, and now you're here. So tell us, LeRoy. What ya got? What do you want to tell us?"

"First off," I sez, I don't want nuthing from you guys. I dont want nuthig so just know that up front. I just want to be free and to stay a free man."

"Well now, LeRoy that just depends. It just depends on what you want to tell us and on whaty ou got to say. See, if you've done something you shouldnt' have, LeRoy," "You don't mind if he calls you LeRoy do you?" "if you've done and something wrong, we can protect you, but you're in our custody now, and so, depending on what you've got to tell us now, it'll be up to us to decide what it is we think will be best for us to do.' (Ors um such thing as that) "Look you queers," I grab the closer one, standing up, not Bob but the clsoer one, by the wrist and twist his arm around behind him like they taught me in the thervice.

"Oh, Leroy, you just did the wrong thing," Bob says.

I pull the revolver out of my sock and point it at Bob. "Look, goddamnit," I continued. "I don't want no goddamn fucking trouble here. I don't want no godamn fucking trouble here. You hear me? I don't want no goddamn fucking trouble here."

"Look Leroy..." Bob starts while setting his gun on the table and raising his hands...

"I don't want to fucking hear it Bob." I tell him. "I came in to talk to Capt. Teneal.

That's who I aim to talk to and then I aims to walk out of here a free man, and not to be followed. You understand me?"

"Bob, tell him you understand him," his partner squeels from the floor under my knee.

"Yeah." Bob confirms. "Yeah, I understand..."

"Bob...?"

"I understand... that you're... about to be... in alot more trouble... than you can imagine."

The door behind me decompresses and in walks some stupid looking guy with dark hair and glasses wearing a long black trench coat and resembling Dracula in the Matrix. He doffed his fedora and said, "Howdy, LeRoy, remember me? It's me, LeRoy, Catain Teneal. You can let my boys go now now. Ya hear?"

"Yeah." Bob confirms. "Let him go."

I let the kid go and hold my hands up, the gun dangles off my finger and I surrender it to Teneal. "There." He says, "now that's more like it, isn' tit Leroy?" He smiled at me.

"For a minute there, it was likeback in hte old days."

We went into hiss office and he had his brats weight out for him outside. We went in and his secretary closed the door behind us. We went into his office and I sat down across his desk and in a large leather sofa-chair. He turned around on me then and offered me a cigar. "No," I told him. "I don't smoke or drink. I just do heroin." I took the cigar from him and lit it up. Then from out of nowhere caome his fist into my face.

He didn't fuck me up or nouthing because I am Agency, so I saw the move coming. To me it was in slow motion. When I say, from out of nowehere, I meant, from behind the smoke. It would be like, if had he thrown sand in someone's eyes and then kicked them in the nuts. Anyway I fell over crying like a baby to distract him and draw him in.

"I'm agency, goddamnit," I holler from the floor, "You petty larcenist! Yuo can't lay your fucking hands on me!" He was about to haul off and kick me while I lay there curled in a foetal position, but that's when I come up with that second revolver. "You got nothin on me, Teneal." And I add to him, "you need what's in my head. Or else you would have never let me walk in armed. You know I know that. But what you don't know yet, is the whole plan. And I know that. I can piece it all tofeteher for you. All you have to do is guarantee me no surveillance on me."

"No surveillance?" He steps back and gestures for me to put the revolver away, and I catch sight of his ring, and so I piut away the revolver, but not before getting my other one back from him first. "Why, no surveillance, so specifically....?" I think he got it already, so I winked at him and he blushed.

"That's why you can't let your goon dogs hollow me back to my place, outside of town.

If I stayed out a safe house, it would be too obvious, but if the boys in your unit don't even know about it, then the spies among them can't report you're having seen me.

It's fool-prrof. I'm a desert scorpion. I was in the first Gulf War. I know what I am doing."

"Must be getting pretty cold out there, huh, Bob?" He turned and offered me a brandy.

"No thanks," I delcined it, "I don't have time for that now. I want to tell you what I know, and then I want you to let me go and tell me to have a nice night."

"Leroy, Leroy, Leroy.... What HAVE you been up to?" He inquires.

we have a long talk about Project Y at Sandia and the old days working on chemical retro-virii bathed in Plutonium. The fuckin things made acid (the melting liquid, not LSD), look like nothin. E-Coli and Ebola both came out of our division of the shop. We were answerable to no man. Then I start dropping bomb shells on Teneal. I tell him the plans to initiate REX84 have been stepped up. They plan to use chem-trails to spray radioactive virii over thef ucking suburbs! They are using the Global Hawks and GPS to coordinate the effect. It's going to be supposed to be all because of me too, I tell him. Unless I can stop them.

Then I tell Teneal the true thing I haved one.

I open my mouth and the word come out: "Zambia." What about Zambia? It is a few minutes before I can open my mouth again, butf inally I say, "If Itell you this, Bob, it has to be kept confidential." I tell him about the invention, about how it went awry,a nd about how the operation had leaked to the WHO and a Christian right-wing AIDS chairty-group. From here, the lady in the churhc mentioned it to her kid, who told her some lies, and she called the cops. All thisw as in Collier County. Now it'sall over the news everywhere. An devenryone is slandering my name! Everywhere I go, it's all I hear, is the devil's in my ears, Bob, and you have to understand, I never was quite right in the head....

After that he told me thank you. Shook my hand and, much to the chagrin and dismay of his boys, let me walk right out how I'd come in, and didnt let them follow me, and he didn't inform the local PD. And now I'm resting in a motor lodge outside of Detroit, paid for curtesy of one branch of the government, at expense of anothe rbranch of the government. Good ole Unkle Sam. -LeRoy Currently reading : The Art of War

By Sun Tzu Release date: 07 November, 2007 5:59 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment what I didn’t tell the fbi Current mood: crappy I wake up at 9AM and feel refreshed for the first time in a week.

I have good reason to breathe deep the free air like a man whose days are numbered.

I had a dream last night.

In the dream I saw the planes spraying HWD I'd described to Teneal. But that's a myth.

That was never the plan. I just told him that to make him listen to me. But I couldn't tell him the simple truth. The simple truth is that the plan revolves around implementing Martial Law in 2012, the Mayan calendar end-date. HWD (human waste drug) was never intended to be mass distributed because it is, well, human waste. The shit virtually grows on trees. Dumping it planes is just, well, for one thing polite. But for another thing you can never use massive biochem dumping from any significant altitude and expect it not to disperse widely and thus to be spread out too thin to have any real affect on the area.

No, the truth is that HWD was planned to be used as a fake epidemic to create wide spread panic in one of the later phases sooner towards the time to implement martial law. They planned to claim its use was widespread among the youth, just like the Collier county warrant reads, but of course this can't be true, yet. It's only the early release stage of this information. Next, some dumb idiot will try HWD, die, and then we will have supposed and then real suicidal copy-cats. We can't try suicidal Goth kids in the trench coat mafia as terrorists, but we can detain their parents along with them if we call it a public health-hazard. That's what they mean by "universal" health care, and why they need Real ID. So instead of the truth about my predicament being mind alone, and not really a crisis of national emergency status, but I needed to make Teneal listen to me. So I held him out some candy. I told him the documents I'd kept from the shop in Zambia were being stored in a safety deposit box in my home-town, but that the key to this safe I'd left in a bus-terminal locker down town. The key to the bus-station terminal locker, I explained, I'd then sent to an old Agency-friendly in the Monitor, with a note explaining my situation, and what he'd need to do to get the documents to press and how tto spin the situation.

I'm sorry to Jesus for all my sins, and I kow the Pope alone could forgive me.

I actually miss those little shits on my school-bus.

I also didn't tell Teneal about this website. It's my ace in the hole. There is no "Agency-friendly" at the Monitor. I did send the key to myself in the mail, but only at a post office box whose number only I know. That's why what's in my head is important to them. But it's all only training, it's just disinformation they planted me with so they could use me like this later, which is now.

I've added a bunch of famous people over the last few days. All I have to do if I feel the heat would be to send out a mass "bulletin" on here, and hope some of these lunatics would take me seriously!

I have a feeling today will be alright. I may spring he trap by giving Jeannie's mom a call just to see if she went to Tom or not. She was never in any real danger of physical harm, but just to be sure, I'd take every precaaution possible. It's the training.

Ah well, time for eggs and sausage at the Waffle House nextdoor.

-LeRoy Currently listening : Rockin’ with Danny and the Juniors

By Danny & The Juniors Release date: 18 April, 1996 12:59 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Goodbye Cruel World Current mood: crappy It's 10AM. I knew it couldn't last forever. But now the jig is up and I'm not ready.

On the way back from waffles house I saw two agents in the motel desk lobby talking to a bell man. Luckily his shift just started, and I checked in last night. He didn't finger me. So I just walked by. I used an alias. So they don't know my name or room number. They must have traced me by the chip inside my arm.

I came back to my room and I took out my pocket knife. I cut the damn thing out of my arm, which means I won't know when they're coming, but since I can only trace them on my laptop, it didn't do me much good now. I pitched the thin into the garbage truck. Then it was 9:45. Now I am not hearing a knock on the door, or anyone outside. I am wondering how I can check out. Those bastards at the fbi must have betrayed me. I bet it was Teneal himself. I can see him now, bowing to the agent his contact like the cardinals to the pope. Little faggit.

But it's too late now, and now the dread is setting in on me. I won't get to see Jeanie no more, and nor I will not see little Denise's birthday this year, or ever. I know there's no such thing as ghosts too. It ain't like int he movies. The movies are all made by Jews, and their God is their God, and the real one is all true -isms. I hope they put that on my head-stone.

There's only one way out now. I have to do what I fear most. I have to do HWD. Whether I die, or whether the test subjects activities were accurate, I cannot yet confirm. All I know is my training, and that's all there is to know.

God though, I can't do it. I know what I msyr to. It's all been laid out before me like a tarot, or the astrology of the stars. I don't want to, but I have dealt myself the death card, card 13.

Now, there is only one thing to do. Go down in hisory, a martyr for this shit, just like every single other person who's ever found out about this plan from the beginning.

It's always been this way. I'm just a sacrificial pig. Sacrificed to the god of the pigs.

Ok. I'm ready now. Oh Denise. Jeannie, I'm sorry for everything. This is the only way.

I'm so sorry.

Ok, i'm ready now. This is the secret to HWD, as it was passed on down to me from the occilt, or rather, by my conotact from the Occult, whose name I dare not mention even now!

1) to prepare: excrement A) render ingredients.

B) cook excrement on stove until blackened. Sweat off all fluid. This is best done using a skewer made from a coat-hanger, because then you can use the dried out fecis as a pipe, as I'll describe in a moment.

C) catching the fluids sweated off the excrement thus cooked on low flame, is essential. They will render the oil used to ferment. The fermentation process itself is actually best accomplished by heating on the stove to a low boil. This will purify the oil for direct consumption, and render off the fumes.

D) catching the fumes is also recommended, so the ideal object in which to cook is a glass bottle. A condom or, in emergency, a circus balloon, can be tied off around the

top. Then inside the oil is heated. The condom will fill up with the gas.

2) to prepare: urine, semen and menstruum A) render fluids into collection receptacle.

B) mix or keep separate.

C) to imbibe: drink semen and menstruum as a shot, drink urine chilled like beer. If you haven't got any hair on your ass, you can mix these substances down with additional ingredients to neutralise the flavour.

3) to imbibe all at once: excrement, urine, semen and / or menstruum A) inhale the collected gas inside the rubber condom through the fecis rendered pipe. Alternate inhalations with drinking gulps of the mixed concoction (combined with the rendered oils).

B) passt he fuck out, and hope to God somebody wakes you up. If nobody wakes ou up, you will definately die.

C) if someone wakes yoou up ( like, I'm hoping to God, hte room-service maidw ill in about twenty minutes) then you will continue to see the "ghosts" of the dead, vbut you will be awake and very much aware.

D) if I don't fall into a stupor, I will be able to find shelter as a homeless lunatic wandering on the streets of Detroit (or somewhere), and maybe even start a new life driving a bus again. God I miss those stupid, crazy kids.

I hope this will buy me a few days more freedom, but if they catch me in this condition they will do away with me for sure. I can only hope they realise that, after this, there's no way I could ever remember anything about the events of the passt few days, let alone my work for our government.

Ah well, It's time. I've rendered all the substances. Now all I have to do is kill a few brain cells. Goodbye, Jeannie. Goodbye Denise. I'll miss you both more than life itself.

God bless you, and keep you, all forever. Amen.

-LeRoy Jenkems 2:17 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday, February 17, 2008 Eureka!!!

Current mood: fermented I have it now. I understand it all.

I have been living between two different space-time "dimensions," so-called "parallel universes," so to speak. One of them is heaven, and the other one is Hell. And here am I, standing with my crown in the apex, and beneath me the cliff o'erhanging the abyss at the nadir. No, beneath me... is nothing. I am floating in space. Help me, Jesus, Help Me!

I am between the worlds now. But there is only one world around me. It is the world that was above, and now I am arisen out of the tomb, the worms were chewing my eyes, but not anymore. Not anymore I tell you because now I am free! I am me, I am free! Whee!

Now I am become death, destroyer of worlds, for by my eye, I live and die, yet death not ends it! I rise up daily to be born again fully emersed naked in the noon light, then I die by dusk and dream beneath the moon's night. Now tell me, I have, do you think you MIGHT? It was true what they said when he booed. What he said so they booed him, but it was true then, I was there. That night, in the audience, and it's on the recording you can me hear me saying it! I say, "welcome to Miami!" But who remember such things nowadays anyway? I tell you though it's true. In the same universe in which "Adolph Hitler is still alive" so too is there nothing to do around Miami.

I'm in Miami now?? How the FUCK did I get here? Am I in Miami? Is this Las Vegas?

Am I nearer to the sea or desert? I'd like to meet the Land Crab now, I hear it's reststop is out in Bat Country. Thompson was here, rickety ole mailbox rusted blowin in an atomic wind. My bus terminal locker number is 5674. It's in Detroit. Inside the Detroit bus terminal locker numbered 4563 in Detroit is the key to my safe deposit box!!

The safety deposit box will contain the keys to all understanding!!! I am reincarnating again! I can feel my own cells dying and being replaced. I am a skin factory, pumping blood, recycling air. I am an efficient biological machine. There is no other one here. Just me.

Help me oh Help Me Jesus, the training's kicking in!

Jesus don't make me kill again, not again and not again and again, and Jesus don't make me kill no one, and Jesus I don't wanna kill no more. Help me Hawking, Einstein, Oppenheimer and Leary. Help me Jesus Light Energy. Help...

There is no ground below me. I've been sleeping upside down. I wake up in a tunnel, a sewer drainage pipe, with my head below and legs wrapt up round me above. I am all tangled up in a knot. Maybe I should go for burgers?

Check my change. I'd need about $1.50. I'd need about $1.50. I'd need about $1.50.

C'mon dancin shoes keep up with me, I feel my legs are full of gelatin and now my arms are turned to mud.

Help me Jesus Help Me Jesus Help me Jesus.

I'm trying to be your shaman God. I'm trying to do good deeds. I'm trying to keep my mind together. Please god tell me, where do you wish to send your messenger? I feel I have in my crotch a flaming sword, and the bloody arm on my side is dripping garnet gore. My tongue twists and turns in my mouth because it is a lie itself, a way to bend the law and to break the heart of trust, the eye of wonder. The eye of wonder.

They taught me, the glory-hand. Autopsy. O god. The training, come to me, o Jesus!

What am I supposed to remember??

I woke up and there was a maid shaking me. But what about before that? I .... can't recall. I'll tell you though, that someone or something took hold of me, no, took "posession" of me then and in one motion as I woke up it propelled me like a windsock marionette-kite, a Japanese new-year Dragon! Exploding!

I ushered her out, then I poured myself a bourbon. I'm okay. I thought. I'm alive.

But that's bullshit. It's simply not true and I know it. Because I don't remember anything before waking up just now, and yet I find my mind flapping in the winds like a flag, or pulled in the depths like bait on the line, and I god no my brain is a worm, one long intenstinal bacteria slug-eel.

There is life and death, on the line, now wake up. Who are you? What is your name?

Stop interrogating me. I don't want to go to school yet.

My name? Why, my name is....

Lee Roy Jenkems. LeRoy Jenkins. They call me Jank at work.

There now, that was simple. Okay, so the situation with the maid happened, what do you remember next? Who are you who is writing this? Where are you now?

You're spying through my mind, aren't you??!

We're doing what we're supposed to be doing.

You should be thankful.

Now look, I know all this already. I told you, I typed it, Eureka, as soon as I woke up and ushered out the maid out and poured a bourbon I sat down at this laptop and started to type. I am in a hotel room. That's where I am.

Mr. Jenkins. Mr.... LeRoy Jenkins....

What is the number of the room?

What...?

No, God, the walls are dripping blood and closing in around me. I suddenly have a gun in my hand. The hand that is attached to the end of the bleeding arm. Now what?

What do you want that gun for, LeRoy? Who are you!?

What is the number of the room. That is the anwer to your question. You already know the answer to your question. You asked who we are? We are the number of your room. You know the number of your room, don't you, LeRoy? I'm gonna fucking kill myself.

I'm gonna fucking kill myself.

I'm gonna fucking kill myself.

Now then, back away.

Now look. I said those things, about waking up and the maid and the bourbon and the laptop and typing this, it's all the training. I don't know who taught me, or when or where or how. I only know it's all I know. So I call it the training. So what?

I also said I woke up in a sewer pipe. And am I in Las Vegas, or am I in Miami, or am in Detroit? This is what I cannot yet ascertain. Because I am inside a hotel room, and the drapes are drawn. It could be anywhere, at any time, I can't even see if it is light outside or dark.

All I know is I'm hearin voices in my head, and all I got's my training.

And now I know my name too. It's Jenkem. LeRoy Jenkem. So at least there's that.

Now then, how did I get them to back off me just now, and what was it I was trying to remember? The Detroit subway station locker... is numbered,.... 3452. And Inside Of It... Is the Future of my ... daughter, my family. It's beginning to come back to me.

But wait. The lock on the locker. The lock on the locker is it combination or is it a key?

I can't remember!!

Wait, my name. I can remember my name. It must have something to do with my name. It's Jenkem. The name's Jenkem, LeRoy, and I've come to collect the... KEY! Where am I??? I seem to be in line. I'm at a post office! There's stamps....

Is this all merely a memory? Am I the self-expression in a dream of a sleeping God? Who can tell me....? Who holds my hand.......?

Cull me, Jesus, calm me. Jesus Energy Light of the higher daylit dimension above the sleeping grave beneath the dirt. Oh God of the brain-worm. Oh Humbaba, Oh Hermes.

Sleeping.... Jeannie. My wife. She is safe. I pray she is safe. We have a daughter.... We have a daughter named.... Denise. Denise. Denise... my daughter.

OKAY. I'm beginning to get the hang of this.

Now, all I have to do, is to fold up the laptop. Put it in that backpack over there. Walk out the room, not looking at the door number, and then walk to the nearest post office and claim my key. By the time I get there I will have remembered the POBox . More and more is coming back to me. Now I will go and see if it is day or night outside. And NOT Look At the Room Number.

Superstition is the key to surviving this now Jenkem.

-LeRoy. 2:54 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday, February 17, 2008 Now I am at a public library...

Current mood: crappy Now I am at a public library in downtown Detroit. But I tell you, it may as well be Interzone. All around me there is chaos. The television is set on dead air. There is a constant squeeling hum, and the perpetual ocean-wave washing in sound of a carcrash. The buzz and the static are at war, I understand now. They have always been at war, and always will be.

The static is said to be angellic, but it is not. It may indeed be extraterrestrialien in origin, but it is never heavenly and it is not divine. I tell you this now truly as a man who believes in Jehovah as God. The static sound, the sound of ocean waves we hear as the wind through a fibonacci spiral sea-shell? The sound of mermaids dying washing up on the shore as foam? Is evil. All evil. The depths of the sea. That is all there may be, up there, beyond the fate of us down here on this planet. Angels. Yes, perhaps. Some evil, some good, perhaps. But all posessed of such a terrible superhuman nature that to encounter them fills one with such dread and wonder we would hail them all as Gods!

And then there is the hum. At first I thought the hum was coming from inside of me.

I thought it was in the very core and centre of my mind. Then I realised it was coming from the earth. And that led me to wonder if it could also be coming from other celestial objects. This was all about an hour and a half ago. That was when I first made contact with the planet / plants. I call them that because each planet is its own form of life on earth. Five planets (venus, mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Mercury) and five genii of the animal kingdom. We are the genus, mammal. Others include reptile, insect, fish, plant and crustacean or arachnoid. Some species are mutations, environmentally triggered to genetically immitate the traits of other species. Some people are mollusks.

Some people are robots. They are a mollusk whose outer shell is their suit and tie. I see them walking into and coming out of Starbucks. But they don't see me. Instead they are all talking on their cell-phones. And who are they talking to? Each other.

Even though none of them ever meet one another, or even doff their shades, and even though each of them only knows less than 20 people through work, yet they continue talking on their phones to one another, among their "family and friends," as it is stated at the end of the month to them on their cell-phone bills.

And here I sit amidst all this. And I have just done "Jenkem."

I am coming to terms with reality. Trying to get a grip on even the most basic sense of identity can make you question the entire nature of reality. But now I am coming back to my senses. I tell you, I have to thank the CIA. If they hadn't taped open my eyes and shown me the feed-back loop of the circuit they created by tapping in one one end to my aura and on the other end to my mind. I wouldn't be here today. The skills and the training that gave me outnumber all the dead bodies I saw along that highway in Kuwait.

And Zambia. Sandia and Zambia. I still haven't gotten it all sorted out upstairs yet. It's coming back to me but slowly and it's still not all there. I have to admit, I feel like my mind itself is just a rat nibbling a maze like a bee-hive or a termite mound through

the swiss-cheese of my brain.

I remember how Jeannie's hair used to smell right after she'd just gotten out of the shower. But I can't seem to remember my own name. How odd that is. But I suppose you know, I mean, hell, look who I'm talking to! You're me. I'm you.

I'm sitting here using my laptop plugged into the wall in a stall at a downtown public library in Detroit, and next to me is a window. I see myself reflected by the angle of the daylight, but I know I am also the me that is looking back. You see, I see the light with my eyes. It travels from the sun, bounces off of me, reflects off the mirror and then into my eyes. So I see myself, and I know myself, even though I feel myself sitting here, and see myself sitting there, that both are me, or rather neither, because I am just the mind that thinks these words to command my arms to tell my hands to make my fingers type all this.

And I'm talking to him, the other me, in a way. I'm writing down my thoughts as I sit here having a conversation with myself in my own mind, and I'm sitting here looking at myself in the mirror, and I'm neither that mirror nor these eyes, but my mind is between all these things, like the slanting sunlight.

And my face is melting like wax beneath my sweat even though my extremities are freezing cold. I know I have turned into a ghost. My body is now dead, a zombie animated only by its possession by the voodoo curse that is my mind. I am an aura posessing this body, but it is not mine. It belongs to the earth, and my home, I know now, is from among the stars.

This is not new. This is common knowledge. We all accept this as a fact on a more or less unconscious level. All of us are made from carbon-water, the combination of earth's cooling fluid element and the ashes burnt off by the stars. That's what our molecules are, and so our DNA is made up of those kinds of molecules in varying arrangements. And then it coils up inside our cellular nuclei like a mollusk in a shell, or like a yuppie into their suit and tie, or like the brain inside its robotic body.

And all of these are one, of course, and already this one is nothing. Already our galaxy has crashed into Andrommeda, but the light hasn't reached us, and so too our entire universe of dead stars in distant galaxies is all burnt out and we're alone.

We conceal our true self-awareness only to protect our children. To an adult insect, the mind of their child is a pupa. The mind of a child is only a caccoon, inside of which is a chrysalis, a metastasizing matrix of genetic mutation. But when the child wakes up to find themselves transformed into a giant insect...

I have to concentrate now. I have to remember who I am and what I am doing. This is not difficult to me now. I have recovered my full peripheral senses and memory. No, what is difficult is not letting the telepathic entities that transcend our flesh and can move from one body among us to another do not happen to overhear the thoughts of my mind as I attempt to decode all of the facts I must accomplish.

For example, earlier I could remember who I was, but not where. Now I know where I am, but I have no idea who I am. All the while, though, there remains the training.

The training tells me what to do, and how to do it, in order to survive. But I do not know why the training itself wants me to survive. If the enemy are strange aliens moving about amongst us as pure thoughts passing through our minds, then who am I? Is the training me? Is the training I?

I am a father, and an ex-husband. I was catholic, converted to Mormon to marry Jeannie, and then renewed my vows to catholicism once we got divorced. I am a chemist by trade, but I've served in the US armed forces overseas, in Kuwait in the first Gulf War, and I worked for the CIA through Sandia Laboratories as a private contractor at a secret facillity in Zambia. My name? My name is Leroy Jenkem.

I am going to have to go soon. The angle of the sunlight is listing to the left here, and a shadow has fallen across the reflection of my face in the window. Outside, between the tallest buildings on the smallest little streets there will already be shadows the colour of dark bruises.

I went to the post office. I got the key. I remember the locker number. I am going there now. I only hope I can continue to look the part of the ragged, homeless philosopher or junky long enough to make it to that terminal, and to get that safedroposit box key. I can catch a bus right there straight home with the rest of the money Teneal gave me. No doubt it's marked bills, traceable by the FBI, but I will probably be more than halfway home before the CIA realizes the destination of the ticket. And so long as I have that key, I'll be home free. Just like they cornered me here, they can corner me there, but just like I had knowledge they needed here, now I have them convinced I hold evidence to expose them there.

So I rushed here, to draw them away from Jeannie and Denise. Now that they will be safe (and hopefully have emptied out the safety deposit box), I will return home, with the Agency and the butt-fucking bureau on my ass like flies on shit. And This Is How It Is. My name is already disgraced. I have to accept that now. Now all I can do is struggle to stay ahead of the predators that don't like that I'm still alive.

But we're all just puppets of fate. It could all come down to a single coin toss. And there may yet be some Jesus Hope left in me afterall. I remember where I have to go.

Now I'm going to go there. I am scared, of course, but keeping the grit in your gut is the best method of camoflage in the cold, where any yuppie could finger you.

I always blamed the Agency for the whole Clockwork Orange routine they pulled on me. But now I understand. It was all just to show me it was nothing compared to this that I'm going through now. They showed me the future, and the future is here now.

But what I saw then was just a movie, and what I'm in now is very real. They showed me, in short, how I was much stronger than I thought at the time, and thus they demonstrated to me, it might be possible for me to yet survive.

I just have to stay off of the radar.

Okay. I'm going now. I pray for Denise and for Jeannie. If there's anyone out there symathetic to me, wish me a Jesus Blessing of Luck. I'm gonna need it.

-LeRoy 5:37 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Monday, February 18, 2008 now I’m on a bus home...

Current mood: crappy

I'm on a bus, which is weird, since I'm used to driving. And this bus is nice. It's a nice greyhound bus, with luxurious carpeted seating and cup-holder arm rests that fold up, and the seats have tv trays in the back of them like on passenger-liner jet-planes and it even has a fucking toilet built into the back of it. I've ridden on busses before, but it never ceases to amaze me. Why not just privatize public transit and nationalize the auto industry. But then, it's not up to me so it's better not to worry I guess.

I'm on a bus and I'm not scared now. I've gotten a couple hours of sleep, and I even charged my laptop battery from a pay-tv at the bus station. Courtesy of Unkle Sam, right down to the dirtiest little dime I've ever had the disgusting misfortune to have had to handle.

I'm on a bus and there aren't ANY kids on it. Back from my Sandia / DC / CIA days, I wouldn't have even considered taking public transit. But look at me now. Bragging about how comfortable this bus is compared to mine. How... jank.

I can't wait to get back into town to see Tom. He calls me "Jank the Shank." He is just some dumb guy who happened to have graduated from the same college as me, though we were in different frats. I was pre-chem and doing animal research while he was pre-FD and scaling 200 foot ladders, diving head first in a gas mask blindly into flames. And yet he'll go to heaven, and I'll spend eternity in damnation in hell.

Fuck.

But he's good people. He never asks to borrow anything from me, but always offers to give or at least loan me things of his. I trust him... maybe I shouldn't. But I do. I trust him because of Jeannie. I really believe they are in love. I believe they have what she and I never could have had. Because of my "job." It's all because of the "job."

So I guess I'll get some sleep. There aren't any little kids bugging me and not even a crying baby on board. I'm so lucky. The seats are so soft. I should sleep some more.

They even have little pillows wrapped in tissue-paper. I was dreaming of Denise...

I dreamt of the night in the Zambian jail. I dreamt of the way that John had held my face in that latrine until I'd died. And I dreamt of Denise coming to me then, like a little angel, and breathing life back into me. Then I killed John Right. Not like in reality. In reality I didn't bite his nose and ears off, and I didn't suck his eyeballs loose, and I didn't force him to eat my shit like in the dream. I just shot him. I shot the sheriff.

That's the quick and easy way to get transferred out of your post, I used to joke about it at the time. It is such a painful memory. It changed me more than I could ever know. It taught me the lesson of karma, and how the cosmic wheel goes round. You know it's funny... when Sherrif Right tossed my salad under that sludge and slime, he thought he was doing the will of Jehovah our God. He thought it was his command to enforce the righteousness of God's infallible judgment. He saw it simple: I released the e-coli into the open sewers, and I was from Project Y, the successor to project X, the AIDS pandemic in Africa. That was all radioactive waste in vaccines though. No, my work was with dirty-chem. But Sherrif John Right didn't see no difference. He just kept saying I was "the white devil." I never did him no personal harm. I was just drunk in the local tavern, and he decided to excercise his vendetta.

He told me, "taste your karma, white devil." And I knew even then that he was right.

I understand so much now. And yet, I know, I am going to die. If I am alive seven days

from now, it will be by no small Jesus miracle. I have to keep that Jesus energy up though. If I start losing hope, and losing self-control, or panic, or attract any attention to myself now, they will have me. And that would be the end. I'd put my revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger. It would spare Denise and Jeannie. But I can't even let myself think like that, not even for a second.

It really is like in the old days. And I thought I could let my guard down in my own little home town. I thought it was safe to start my family. I thought it would be safe to love. But that is not what God had planned for me. So now I am on a bus home, and I'm praying alot of extra-special Jesus Light towards home and hoping that Jeannie took Denise and went with Tom to somewhere safe. I dare not even hope they emptied out the safe-box, and that once my predators and their prey both arrive there at the same time, to cut me off at the pass, they will discover the box empty.

I know they will kill me then. But I know something they don't. I'm already dead now.

I'm just a ghost mind in a zombie body.

Time for a little shut-eye now. Wish me some sweet dreams.

-LeRoy 3:53 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

a new job!

Current mood: crappy I arrived at about 5AM and disembarked into the terminal in the middle of my home town. I hoofed it to the bank and slept for an hour outside beside the ATM. But I was behind some bushes and so nobody even saw me I guess since nobody bothered me.

At 9AM I walked into the bank and up to the teller. I laid down the key and my driver's liscence and said, "I want to open up my safe-deposit box." And they went away with my ID and left my key and then came back with another teller who had a gold name tag that said "Gladys." And Gladys told me, "Mr. Jenkins..." (That's how I knew right away)... "Mr. Jenkins," she said, "they've put a hold on your account."

Who I sez. "Well," she sayd, "I'm not sure. I know it came down to us via the computers, and that means it was initiated by corporate's central processing system."

She added, though, "it looks like your holdings in this bank are supposed to be liquidated to the fbi as... evidence." I don't need to make a withdrawl or a deposit. I say. I just want to open my safe-deposit box, and I have a key. I hold up the key in my left hand, so that she will see my ring. "Now have they put a hold on that, or only my financial assets?"

They both went back to gossip and then a man came out. He was the Wells Fargo guy, a privately hired rent-a-cop. He came out with the two women and then he looked at my ID and he looked at my face and he said, "you have your key?"

He led me back to the safe and told me, "I reckon it shouldn't be a problem with those fellows from the state," he said, "so long as you don't remove anything from the safe.

So you can sit in the room over there," he said, "but I'll have to stand in there with you. And make sure you don't try to remove anything."

I understood he took me as Agency, but didn't know how to handle the situation without having to save face to me until the boys from Washington showed up. Maybe he thought he could keep me occupied until they got there. But I went in, and he went in, and the woman brought me my box, and I opened it up, and it was empty.

I laughed out loud. What a wonderful stroke of luck. Someone must have prayed for me, I thought. Seeing as how the box was empty, and since the rent-a-cop could not justify to detain me there when there was no posted evidence in that bank of my warrant, so he let me go on my merry way. I went whistling down the main street of my little home-town. I whistled Zip-Ee-Dee-Doo-Dah all the way home.

But when I got to her house, I saw Jeannie's car was gone. So I broke in and called Tom. I looked around and found a cell-number for him on a post-it-note on the refridgerator, stuck there with a strawberry shortcake magnet. So I called Tom on his cell phone number.

Tom answered but only after six and half rings. He said to me over the phone then, "I knew it would be you, everything is going according to plan, and in my location we are all ready for the go command. The call is yours....." and then he waited.

Now, Tom is a fireman. This was high-level counter-intelligence double-talk gobblede-goop. Coming out the mouth of a fireman. And then I realised it. Tom didn't think he was talking to me. He thought he was talking to somebody else. So I hung up.

I opened the oven and turned on the stove and walked out.

I started panicking. Once I got about six or seven blocks from the house, I heard the boom behind me. So I started to pick up my pace. Instead of voices in my head, or even sirens and a static crackle, I heard nothing. And then I started listening to the pounding of my heart, and it skipped a beat, and began to palpitate, and then I start to hyperventilate a little, so I stopped to catch my breath.

I had a stitch in my side, so I stopped to catch my breath. I stopped to catch my breath but I also stopped to make sure I was not being followed. It was the first thing I'd done since leaving the bank that was a senseable thing to do. But you have to understand.

It was my grand-mother's house, and my father's house, and then my house, and I fixed it up and then sold it to Jeanny so I could buy my bus. But I got health care and could pay her child-support for Denise. So she got the house, and I live in a roachhotel. But I'd never been calmer or more content than when....

Can't think like that. Can't panic. Looked around, saw no shadows. But the silence between my ears was growing deafening, and as soon as I caught my breath I knew I'd need to find somewhere to go to think for a few minutes.

It was obvious now Tom was a plant. He was a double-agent sent from the opposition on a long-term mission of infiltration and co-option. Now I am at a loss. I am at a huge loss. I trusted Tom, so I would have hoped Jeannie and Denise would have gone with him, maybe they are safe, even though he was going to set me up. And for what?

I walk over to a house that has a pile of nine individually bagged newspapers, including two over-sized Sunday editions and I look around and then I walk around back and break some glass using my fist muffled by my back-pack and go into the door. They have a pool and a backyard patio.

I sit down and plug in my laptop. I log on here and find that my original contact from the Occult, the elite sooth-sayers behind and within the wealthy conspirators. He had added me here on the page, and so I messaged him.

He wrote me back instantly, and we began to talk on MySpace IM with Skype. I will not tell you what we talked about. That will be, ultimately, what is going to save my life. He told me that the agency was being divided down the middle over the issue of the dept. of homeland security. Those who opposed it were being fired rapidly, and those who supported it were being prommoted rapidly and leaving a high turn-over rate in the chief officies. The administration was pushing the agency too hard, he told me. Then he asked me, would I like to be swept down beneath this crack in the concrete?

I thought for a moment. All life's ups and lows, and those kids, and Denise growing up, and getting back Jeannie, heh, killing Tom would be nice, so I said, "yes." and he disconnected from the chat.

Should I take this to mean all is called off? Should I still be worried about the agency hunting me? Should I seek my revenge against the alien hostile agent Tom, now exposed, with impugnity knowing the aegency's hands are unofficially tied? I decide to wait until the morning and so I have walked to a motor-lodge around the south side of the town and I have checked in and plugged in my battery and am on my laptop typing this in now.

I don't know what to do. But I know I must be patient. So I lay down on the maid-up bed-spread and cross my hands like a mummy and have set the computer to ping me if I receieve an IM on here. I am going to be patient and lie here, and we will see what is to transpire. *** In ten minutes, the laptop pings and my eyes snap open. I wasn't asleep, but I had entered a deep meditative trance like the Himalyan Bohn shamen and the Tibetan Buddhists. I intentionally slowed my heart rate. I fluttered my eyes beneath the lids like in dreaming sleep. Then the computer pinged and I sat up and went over to it.

He was contacting me from a different account. He always astounds me. He identified himself by our mutual and unique pass word. Then he explained to me, many of the profiles on myspace were not maintained by the actual people, but either by immitators or their own agents, and these are all our own agents. The pages are all designed autonomously, but linked to a central database. "Our main network," he explained, "accesses each autonomous page through the central database."

Then he said the words I longed to hear.

First he asked me, "how would you like a position in Homeland Security?" He always astounds me. When I first met him was when I'd just graduated from the local technical college with a degree in chemical engineering, and I was sending out resumes to all the most conspiciously giant and predatorial "new world order" corporations. I applied to the big gas companies, even Halliburton energy. It was pure ambitiion that drove me then, so when he walked up to me on campus, when he told me to take the position at Sandia, after a brief stint in the army, I could not resist him. I was astounded. How could someone so famous, so high-profile, just walk around on the campus of my local technical college unidentified and unharassed. It was

impossible. I concluded he was a dread wraith, a conjuring only I could see, projected from a distance. But this is only partially the case. I can say no more.

Then he told me, "your wife and your daughter are safe." I breathed a sigh of relief.

"But..." it was several seconds before he typed again. "You have to let us handle Tom. You have to stay out of that. This will all hinge on that. If you want the job, it's yours.

You just have to stay out of how we handle Tom. And it could be a while," he explained, "before any action might be taken. Maybe never. And meanwhile I would have to not let Tom know that I knew he had betrayed me. If I ever let him know," my occult contact advised me, "then I would be dealt with concordantly."

I understood. He said good. Then we parted off and now I am typing this all here.

I want to do something good now with this blessed life I have been given! I want to found a charity organisation to spread awareness about the use of HWD as a counterintelligence ploy. I want to work with the WHO in Africa. *** I am sitting here typing this and then the phone in my motel room rings. I pick it up.

It is Jeannie. I breathe a heavy sigh, and she reciprocated.

"LeRoy," she said to me then. "Tom told me. Tom told me. He told me what you told him.

He told me they tried to come for you, and that is why you ran. LeRoy," she said then, "I forgive you... for missing... Denise's birthday." Then she cries. And I cry too.

Because what more can be said? It is like a guiotine came down, a razor sharp agency knife sliced down, and it cut away all that was unessential, and all the dead wood, and all those words that we don't really need to say anyway.

"Jeannie," I saed to her then. "I got me a new job today. So they won't come now. And now we're safe. But Jeannie...." I gulp at lying to my wife, "I went by the house, and it was on fire. I couldn't stay there then. But the house burned down Jeannie. It's all ashes by now."

"It was always your house," she told me. "I've moved in with Tom. Denise and I moved on Wednesday. We packed light, but brought everything we needed. We're used to it, remember? We're Mormons!" Then she laughed that laughed, and my sotmach wrenched into a knot knowing Tom was with her even now.

And so we hung up because there was nothing else to say. And then I checked out, and I went back to my hovel, with my bus parked out front, and I sat down, and I logged back in here. I understand what life is now. Life and death are one and the same. Whether you live or die is just a coin toss. It's just the winds of chance. But these are like the mind itself, and the mind is just a puppet of fate.

I am going to go to sleep now, and tommorow I'll get up and go to work just like usual.

And Jill will cover for me to Daryl, and I will live to see Denise grow up.

Unless they kill me in my sleep.

-LeRoy. 2:07 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, February 19, 2008 wtf just happened.

Current mood: crappy things are beginning to add up to me again. I've been reading over this blog. I'm starting to get wise. To see the patterns, and the pieces are beginning to fall into place.

Tom is fbi. That much is clear now. He must have been a plant assigned to me by Teneal when I first went cold three years ago, right after officially ending my job at Sandia. They told me they would protect me if I turned over some certain documents, not pertaining to my own section, and not incriminating myself, but about Project X, which had actually ended several years ago. Six or seven years before now I think.

But they wanted these documents from the files. And so I said, for them to protect me once I quit Sandia, I would get them, and I got them, and then I quit, and moved back home. And I never thought about it, but I guess I always knew, deep down, Tom was their plant.

If Jeannie moved in with him last Wednesday, that was the second day I was gone. I left on Tuesday, the day the feds showed up at work. They must have been Teneal's men too. So the three "drifters" I cut the throats of in Tulsa, were either also Teneal's men (which would mean he would keep on me), or else they were agency (sent to snoop on me), but I don't think they were either. They were from the Dept. of Homeland Security, I realize now. They were the MIB. Which means that the "strike-team" Tom expected to be waiting for me at the house was either those men in Tulsa (in which case Tom might have been up for my new job), or else they were Teneal's boys back in Detroit, or else there was none, and they were only an agency lie fed to the fbi plant to uproot them as a mole (in which case, then my blowing up my family house must be why I was hired onto the Dept of MIB).

I find the third scenario to be the most likely.

Now I understand who the MIB are, how they can walk through time appearing here and now and then disappearing only to reappear somewhere else at any other time. I have long suspected this shadow-stepping, temporal puddle-jumping, but I'd never dreamed it might be real. But now I know it is, or rather will be, in a near-enough future it has already begun and that is when the MIB are from, the future time-travel experiments performed under the auspices of the DHS. It was the old-school agents who set me up. Tom too. They propped us up against one another, him spying on me, and me a cold contact spy. Then the time (last Wednesday) came to spring the trigger, and they activated Tom. So he must know there never was no such documents I'd kept left over describing Project Z. It was all theoretical still when I quit. I only ever even told Teneal part of it. But the plan is myth. The plan is legend.

And that means Teneal must know there was no documents, and that I'd lied to him.

But if Tom and I were only being pitted against one another, like Spock and Kirk, him from the fbi, me from CIA, to compete for the position in DHS, the MIB. Then it must mean that Teneal was answerable to my own same occult contact. If Teneal (fbi) answered to my own contact, then it explains why I am being shunted up to the safer position. Tom and the fbi can all go to hell though as far as I care. If the

time for the shift up has come, and the CIA is assigned to domestic, then the FBI will replace the local pig-dicks, and through FEMA, mobilize the army and reserves. But if that's true, and the DHS is what us agents are being raised up into now, and the CIA will be recruiting from the fbi, like the DHS is recruiting from CIA, then Tom might end up answerable to me, as Teneal's equal, under our mutual occult contact.

And what is more, I might even be among the rumored "elect" of CIA to become MIB and work with UFOs, if, that is, DHS is the MIB... or rather, will be....

I trust him. My occult contact. I have to. It's Denise I care for, more even than for Jeannie. If Tom killed her, I would still have Denise, because if he killed Jeannie, I would kill him before he would be able to kill Denise. But it is their lives at stake, and I am a moral man, and I will not endanger them that way.

That is why my occult contact personally told me to wait. That is why he personally prommoted me, not for the sake of saving my life, but for the sake of telling me to wait, to not take out Tom yet. But I know the time will come. I know my orders will come down. And soon. So I have to be ready.

As soon as Jeannie and Denise can be safely separated from it, I will murder Tom. I will have alot of fun doing that. Yes, I will. But it's more important that Jeannie not connect me to that, for Denise's sake, and my occult contact knows all that. That's why he told me my prommotion hinged on not killing Tom... yet.

I know I could act now. With impugnity. The DHS is oversight to fbi and CIA. As DHS, I can act against the fbi without the CIA being able to do diddly shit. Thanks Unkle Sam. Thanks for that great Act of PATRIOTism, George. Jesus Christ. What a fucked up world.

But because I could kill him now, I know I will be allowed to later. It's for Jeannie and Denise's sake I can't act now. But I will later. Sooner or later. But I'll be patient and await the order. More patient than Tom was in answering that phone and waiting for the command. If he'd been a man he would have killed them both then, as I blew up the house. But he didn't. So that's how I know my contact was behind the absent "shock" team at the house, and how I know he set up Teneal to set up Tom, and all to pit Tom and I against us for the same position in DHS, as if it wasn't mine by foregone conclusion...!

I can't sleep because I keep thinking of killing Tom. It's wiser not to sleep though.

Better to show up to work looking the part of the sick hook, and to not let my own throat get cut tonight in my sleep by Tom so he can do what he should have done before, when I torched my house, and take my fucking job.

Well that's not gonna fucking happen, because I am not gonna fucking let it. I even carry both my revolvers in my bathrobe pockets when I get up to go pee. I am agency, goddamnit. I am special. I am gifted. I am perfect.

I need to turn my mind towards chemistry, try to stay awake until 4 when I have to leave for work. I need to re-examine my notes in this blog on the effects of my experiment. Since I seem to have survived, as my senses confirm correctly now that I am in my right mind again, then I have to wonder if the rumours of this were true all along...?

I know the plutonium in the open sewers in Zambia was my section of Project Y. But

what if the kids that inhaled that shit, actually did have hallucinations? Then it would be true about the drug, but the missing ingredient would be plutonium... Is it possible it was psychosomatic? An induced mental reaction necessitated by environmental coincidence? Did I just prepare the substance according to the original recipe the boys in Zambia cooked up as a joke, and then feint from overdose of toxicity levels?

It's possible. I have to admit it. But I also know how it felt to me at the time. Am I only of seemingly sounder mind now, afterwards, on account of having learned from the experience, or is this a neuro-chem reaction? fuckit. I can't think. I'm gonna go get in my bus and show up to work early. Maybe I can talk it out with Daryl. I hope he won't be mad. I hope those pig dicks didn't bust his balls, or else I'm gonna have him chewing my ass out all day. Goddamnit.

-LeRoy 6:26 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

a chemical analysis of the effects: Current mood: crappy first things first.

The chemistry is first. Chemistry always came first for me, and that's all I've ever been particularly good at, naturally, it just comes to me, and I don't even have to try.

Neurologically, biochemically, the brain is the only organ of the cognitive central nervous system, while the rest of the primary nerves are somato-sensory peripheral nervous system. Now we know, we scientists know, about the stegosaurus. We know it had it developed a second brain from the sacral plexus, posterior to the spine. No one has said why, it is just considered a mutation. I'll come back to this.

Now I say there is one organ in the cognitive and one organ in the somato-sensory, or the central and peripheral nervous systems. This is unorthodox, but I am saying so for short-hand, just to make it easier to understand quickly. It would be like saying the brain is to the bodily nerves like what the stomach would be to the skin. The stomach is an organ, and the skin is an organ. Both are cells, and both these types of cells are different though. It is commonly thought the brain cells and the nerve cells must be the same. We now know they are not.

Some cells in the brain differ from one another. The "columns" or fibers of greymatter cell-tissue in the fore-brain of the cerebrum differ markedly from the cells of the thalamus, the pineal gland, or the cells of the hind-brain cerebrum. The cells of the grey matter, the so-called cortex (for shell, because in our species, the cerebrum encapsulates the "mid" and "hind" brains like a mollusk in a conch shell), these types of cells are most like the types of nerve cells we have in the rest of our body.

Consider the nerves in our skin. These have an axon end and a dendrite end and they transduct electro-chemical neuro-transmitters across the gaps between one cell's dendrites and another cell's axon terminals, and so do the cells inside the cerebral cortex.

But the cells of the thalamus and the pineal, the hypothalamus and the pituitary, these all have different kinds of cells than each other, and therefore different kind of cells from the cerebral cells, which are the same (basically) as the somato-sensory

nerve cells in the rest of the body. So, we could even say, the cerebral-cortex (the grey-matter) of the brain and the rest of the somato-sensory system form one organ, while the other parts of the brain is each its own individual form of tissue, and therefore it's own unique kind of organ.

So, back to the stegosaur. Why did it develop a brain in its ass? What environmental change triggered the genetic mutation that gradually allowed the evolution in this species of a posterior cerebrum? Aha! It was NOT a cerebrum. The tissue of the forebrain is developed in mammals. It was the tissue of the hind-brain that was developed in reptiles. So the thunder-lizard "super" reptile Dinosaurs more than just thought with a different part of their brains. They thought using a different group of organs inside the skull than the organ we use, the cerebrum, which itself is really only an outgrowth of the somato-sensory system. In humans, the hind-brain is atrophied. It is not that our fore-brains have not developed, but it is simply also that our hindbrains have begun to decompose.

So, the stegosaur didn't need to develop another new "hind" brain in its "hind" quarters, it was developing an outgrowth of extra somato-sensory nerves to control waving its spiked tail around. It obviously couldn't have known it at the time, but this lump of posterior nerve tissue would eventually congeal at the opposite end of the spine, around the reptilian hind-brain, and become the oversized cerebrum of mammals. The stegosaur had the first form of mammalian brain. It was in its recutm.

Now, we are used to functioning from the point of view of someone whose brain is in their skull. So were the dinosaurs. But their brain was made up of the various different organs of the hind-brain, and did not have a cerebrum as we now know it.

The brains of the dinosaurs are still inside our craniae, but we don't use them now.

Instead we rely on our mammalian thalami to relay commands from our cerebrae in exchange for stimulus-input from our bodily nerves.

Our brains, the part of us giving the commands, via the mammalian thalami, to our bodies, are made of a different kind of cells than the various brain organs of the dinosaurs. Our own brains are essentially made of bodily nerve-cells, while the brains of the dinosaurs were made up of the cells of the hind-brain organs, the hypothalamus, pituitary and cerebellum. Reptiles use these multiple different celled organs to think with. Mammals and humans use our cerebrae, which are made of the same type of cell tissue as the rest of the nerves inside our body. In humans the hindbrain is the most atrophied of all species.

What if there were a chemical way to access the consciousness of the atrophied hindbrain organs? What if the methodology for accessing the reptile aspects of our brains was in immitating the conventual environment of the giants of that species?

Ergo, what if the human fore-brain mistook the re-accessing of the reptilian hindbrain for de-evolutionary? What if in order to control time, all we have to do is move our central sense of self back and forth between the hind-brain (past) and forebrain (present) modes of neural tissue, via the mammalian thalamus, which, in itself, controls our own "biological clock" or mental chronometer, by determining the amount of electricity sent by the brain it will translate into the chemical dopamine, which in turn regulates our circadian cycles of sleep and waking, day and night.

There must be a reason he told me that formula.

More than only disinformation. There must be some occult meaning to it I don't yet understand. But I am a chemist, and I have to keep thinking like a chemist.

Now, I believe that, psychology (my taining as an agent and soldier) aside, the chemical reaction that took place in my brain can be identified. The best clue I have to go on is the fact of my strange lapses in memory. It was the training that allowed me to remember the number of the POBox and the number of the drop locker in Detroit. But it was also, I believe, only a distortion of this same training that led me to the paranoid-schizo reaction of hearing the voices of aliens in my mind. These aliens were only imaginary, and only based on my own training as a spy. So, we can rule out the hallucinations as well as my conditioned behaviors on that day.

What is left over after this must be the truth. So, what we have is the distortion to my memory regarding first my location (where I was), and later my identity itself (who I am). Now, I will say these were not regained in any specific order based on the chemical reaction. I will say, because of the chemical reaction I lost ALL memory of basic self-cognition, and that the order in which I regained my memories is secondary to that effect in specific. (Note though, the locations for memories of "where" and "who" in the cerebral cellular tissues are different from one another.)

No, I think that, when I imbibed the "Jenkem," that my mind receded into my hindbrain and that is why basic self-cognition only returned to me over time. Whether it returned first to one part of the cerebrum or another is, as I say, ultimately secondary to where my "conscious" mind went during the twenty minutes I was passed out. Since I was unconscious, and because I fell into that "black-out" condition due to a chemical shock to my system, I have no memory of that time.

It is likely that, with depth therapy such as hypnosis, I could recover the memories of that lost time. However, I do not have time now to delve into this recollection process as safely as I might like to. Instead, I have to conclude two things: 1) I did not die. Therefore, it may be possible that this concoction, though extremely toxic, is not necessarily lethal.

2) there was a neurological effect induced in my brain from the experience.

Therefore, it may be true that this toxin may indeed be capable of producing such an experience universally.

So... in order to test this I have decided to try it again. But not yet. I will wait until the weekend when I have some time to take notes, and I will use a loud alarm clock to wake me up seconds after I have taken the same dose as before. I will examine the effects of it again, on the assumption I will again survive, however all of this, note bene, is only in preparation for a later experiment using the missing ingredient (Plutonium) that I will save for the right time, and conduct on Tom. I await the weekend, and my orders.

-LeRoy Currently reading : The Principle of Relativity (Dover Books on Physics)

By Albert Einstein Release date: 01 June, 1952 12:00 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Wednesday, February 20, 2008 What have I done??

Current mood: fermented Today, Wednesday the twentieth of February, Two Thousand and Eight...

Four days after my daughter, Denise, turned fifteen....

Two days after I burned my childhood house to the ground...

A) there was a total lunar eclipse of the moon.

B) my daughter came to visit me, and told me things I never would have known.

C) Tom abducted Jeannie.

D) I placed my order through DHS to sequester some Plutonium. answer....

E) everything above.

Let's start with when I woke up. I was tired. I'd had some beers the night before. They were kinda flat from being left for a week in my mini-fridge. So I woke up with a hang-over from Hell. It felt like my eyes were bulging out of my head and that my brain had turned into an octopus... no... a nine-tentacled "nanopus"...

I'm kinda panicking right now, so I may have to take breaks. I have contacted my occult handler, and he has not yet contacted me back. I will interject into the narrative with any info I receieve as I go along. Meanwhile, the moon is eclipsing. It is about 9PM on Wednesday the twentieth of February, twenty-hundred and eight.

I started when I woke up, so I'll start again there. I woke up and had a hangover.

Typical, head-ache, cotton-mouth, dehydration feeling. So I remember it was 4:36AM. I had to go into work, so I did, but on the way in I stopped at the post office to check my box. Sure enough, a letter from Unkle Sam tellin me the official title of my position in DHS, with a short dossier on the office, its duties, a short oath to be signed and returned, as well as a pre-signed certificate of authentication suitable to frame.

So I threw it all in my glove-box and went to work. Oh, but I'd gotten a coffee at the post. That comes into later.

So I get to work, and I forgot it was the boss', Daryl's, birthday. We were all supposed to (unofficially but still) bring some token of our appreciation for his office management skills or some bullshit about "team co-ordination." BUt I walked in off the lot, carrying my little styrophome cup of coffee and everyone is standing around the water cooler, they have literally just finished singing happy birthday to him as I opened the door, and, as he went to blow the candles out, the wind blows in the way I came in, and blows the candles out right in front of him. And there were alot of candles, too.

So, instead of panicking like I should have, for the sake of the cover, instead I busted out laughing for some reason. And I was laughing so hard I apparently didn't hear the boss tell me I was fired. So I sigh after laughing and then see everyone else

around me laughing and pointing, but at me. So at first I start laughing again, but then the boss repeats it, and this time I can hear him.

"Fuck you, I quit!" I yell at him at the top of my raspy ole lungs and as I was storming out I was walking past the time-card rack and so I poured my coffee, kind of over my shoulder as I was walking out, all down everyone's time-cards, and ruined the clocking machine, at least that's what they'll say.

I am watching the eclipse on a streaming live shot from Iran on my laptop. It is truly beatiful. I wish I could afford to appreciate it better. C'est la vie.

So, Daryl comes up behind me out in the lot as I am going out to my bus to leave. But I see him coming in a reflection, but I am trained to not react in such a situation, so I kept my cool. But he came up and put his hand onto my shoulder. So I acted like I'd been touched by the flaming hand of the devil himself and freaked out.

I spun around and screamed right up in the boss's face! I flat out told him, "look, I wouldn't be late so much if we didn't have to keep doing these stupid 'appreciation' parties every other fucking week," but then he stepped right up to me, toe to toe, and got right up in my face and he said... "No, LeRoy, you know what your problem is?

You don't know what life is. That's all there is to it. You ain't got no clue. No get your stank-ass, busted tail-pipe havin, no report-meeting stanky, crusty, stank ole ass off my mother-fuckin lot right this instant before I call the cops! I got them on speed dial on my cell phone for your ass."

"Oh?" I stuck my chest out at the man. "You don't know the half of it, you..." But then I did something completely odd and out of character again! I don't think it was the training this time either, though, this time it helped. Instead of getting into a shouting match with the boss in the middle of his lot like I wanted to, I just backed down. I said, "no, you know what, 'boss'? You're right. You're right." And I patted him with both hands on his chest like I was gonna straighten up his pinky-purple suit for him, and he flinched, I saw him flinch, but it was just a little. Like so as the other crowd of people from the office wouldn't see it happen, so he wouldn't lose face with them. But I saw it happened, I saw it in his eyes. He'd been in the army too. And so we locked eyes, and he broke and I didn't and he showed me a terrified look of fear.

So I got into my bus and I drove off. And I heard him yelling after me, "that's right, LeRoy! You run, LeRoy! You do what's right, LeRoy! You be a man!" And all I could think of wanting to do was to run his ass flat over in my rig, but instead I bit the fuck out of my lip and drove out the lot.

The eclipse is almost over already. But I can't go outside. I can't even turn the lights on. And I have to keep checking the window. This ain't no goddamn way for no man to live like this. At least I know Denise is safe. I just waiting for confirmation from my contact. Or a bullet in the brain. Whichever comes first.

So, I drive off the lot and I go to a duncan doughnuts and park my rig in the extended cabs lot on the south west corner behind the drive through. I am contemplating going into the doughnut shoppe and just mowing everyone down with a machine gun. I carry one in my bus, in the glove box. Ain't needed to use it ever yet.

Then I went over by the post office after about five minutes of steaming off. Not the hub I went to at 5, but the closer one that opens at 9. It's just then turning nine o'clock. I figure, the furthest place I need to be away from is any school or church or

place where I'd hear a bell ringing. I just wanted to keep my job. I liked my job.

I go in and I take a drink from the water fountain. I look around and then I go into the bathroom. I had to act fast. So I brought the styrophom e coffee cup. I deuced loosley into in while I janked the toilet plumbing apart to drain the bowl. I carefully placed tp over the seat down, and gingerly set the cup of crap down into the toilet bowl hole at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Then I got out my lighter.

After that things went a little blurry. I know I didn't half a gun with me when I walked up into the post office. I'm always very careful about that. I don't pack my piece into banks or government office buildings. As a rule.

The next thing I remember is driving in my bus down the main street of my home town with one of my revolvers in my left hand, and some blod on my cover-alls. I did't honestly think I killed no one when I came to, but I knew I was driving my bus around on the middle of town, so I needed to chill off the streets and put my goddamn gun away. And it was my gun. If it hadn't been......

So it was resination from the fumes it turned out, that had dripped down the front of my overhauls and was even still in my beard. Then a fist come out of nowhere like back in Detroit from the left. BLAM! And I remembered, telling the teller, "oh that's just skoal." So I'd made a transaction. I was pulling into a Dairy Queen lot. I needed to think and get it together. But no I didn't kill no one. So I musta got my gun from my glove box when I came back out. I must have just been sweating the effects.

I was pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot about ten minutes before I pulled out.

That while I was trying to remember what I'd done. I knew I hadnt killed no one. But I couldn't even remember why I'd gone to that post box. It was awful. So I was panicking and I'd completely blacked out. Then I understood when I finally looked down to see what smelled so bad and it was the burnt up cup that had dripped all over my shit. Then I remebered the teller saying "oh my unkle used to dip." She didn't look no older than my daughter's age. That was the first time yet this day I'd thought of her was then as I was piecing things together in that Dairy Queen lot.

I ended up getting out of my bus and puking in the bushes. It all came flooding back to me after that. I could remember everything. I'd filled out the order to sequester the Plutonium on the official lettehead paper they'd just sent me that morning. So I went from one post office and then I went to another. And then I was sitting there trying to figure all this out and I thought, "the smell of this crude on me isn't helping me think." So I went down the steps and forced open the folding doors and fell over into the bushes and puked on myself. I was a mess. But I could remember!

So after sitting in the bushes for ten minutes dizzy I got back into my bus and drove home. I had huffed the fumes of the burning cup of crap in the mail toilet, and then I'd gone into the bank and written the order out with one of those pens on a little chain made out of ball barings. Then I'd sealed it in a bank envelope with my POBox on it, and given it to the teller. I only found out when she pointed it out that I had had that shit all down the front of me that whole time. But by the time I'd figured all this out, I also had puke all down the front of me too, so I drove home.

I was arriving at about the same time as I usually get home from the route. And then I saw Jeannie's car in front of my hovel. So I thought, 'oh God help us all if Tom knows now." But little did I know then. It was Denise and she had stolen Jeannie's car and drivven to my place. Well, by rights she didn't steal it. She was borrowing it

without asking, though, because her mom was letting her drive, with her in the car, to practice her driving. It was an argueable issue since Jeannie's house was so close to my dive on skid row, but that was the one I'd burned down. To come from Tom's she would have had to driven across town. But when I pulled in and parked, and she got out of the driver's side of Jeannie's car, I knew she couldn't have come from Tom's unless she'd left before they woke up.

So I got out of my bus and am covered in puke and melted plastic mixed with shit, and she runs up to me and hugs me before she can see it on me.

Now Denise is my daughter and I love her. But God Bless Her, she can be so mule headed sometimes. It is entirely her mother's side of her too. That whole side of the family is full of lunactics. I love my daughter, she's great. Denise growing up was a stitch to watch. I could babble on and on, but it's not important now. I don't have time to worry about her now. I have to trust she is safe.

At that time. It must have been. About... 10:15 AM, and so I knew that, if Tom and Jeannie weren't awake by then, there was something wrong with Jeannie at Tom's, and if they were awake, they would definately know Jeannie's car was gone, and they would probably have already called Denise' school and figured out she was absent from home room. Christ. I was so worried then as I rushed out the bus, I fforgot to tell her to watch out from my shit and puke on my cover hauls and I couldn't stop her rushing up and hugging me right as I walked out the folding doors.

We went inside. She was laughing and crying at the same time. She was hysterical.

God, I love my daughter. But she was so worked up. It was so unfortunate it was having to happen then, I thought. She had shit and puke all over her uniform and I had shit and puke all over my overhauls so we went inside my hovel.

I took down my hammock and moved the mini-fridge to the back. Then I pulled up the futon underneath the hammock into a couch, and we sat down. I started unbuttoning my overhauls and she was immediately taking off her blouse. We thenc aught sight of one another, and we turned our faces away from each other.

She went into the shower while I took my overhauls and washed them in the kitchen sink. I changed into my red velvet jump-suit with the fake adiddas single- white stripe. Then she came out wearing a towel, and we sat down on the futon while her blouse and dress were in the driar.

So then she went into hysterics again. She was laughing and crying on my shoulder and basically having a tantrum. She pitched her bitch fit for about five minutes before she started huffing and puffing and dried her eyes with her towel. I say, her towel, because it was the same one her mother brought her home from the hospital in the night after she was born. She went back into the utility room, crying, but calmer, and was yelling out to me that she isn't normally like this, and that she has got to talk to someone, and that she was sorry for the things she said when we last spoke, etc. etc. etc.

She came out in her uniform again as I was starting to come into the utlitiy room and we ran into one another again. We caught our eyes again and then she brushed past me and went over to the futon without smiling. She crumpled down into a pile and was hitting her fist on the arm of the futon. She was considerably calmer now thought than she had been.

So I went over and sat next to her and put my arm around her to comfort her, but she nudged at me and told me not to touch her. This iss uch a painful memory now... I must remember that is all it is.

She told me things I would never have been able to even ever imagine. I am a simple scientist. I would never have even begun to be able to deduce such terrible things as she laid on me next.

Firstly, she told me that she was running away. She told me she was going to drive until she ran out of gas and then hoof it in a random direction. She told me she was out of her mind! She said it herself. Then she began to explain to me. She said that she had been counting her periods since she started having them. She was late two months. She told me before I could even ask her, "Tom's th father."

I wanted to ...

I can't even begin to say what.

Then she dropped the second bomb on me. That was Hiroshima. Then she introduced me to Nagasake. First the left, then out came that right. She's definately a Jenkem, my clan. Good ole Jenkem folk stick together.

She told me the fbi had come to her school to recruit, and she had taken an entrance exam. She said they'd told her she'd won a special scholarship to where they would pay for her to entend Yale specifically or any other school of her choice. And she said, she kept saying, and these men, these agents... and then she said, So I am going to a summer training camp for prospective agents, and it's all happening so fast, and I can't make anything stop moving around me.

So before she could freak out again, and knowing she didn't want to be touched. I offered her a shot of bourbon and a cracked open a beer. She looked at me weird for one second, then saw me down the beer, and when I was crushing the aluminum can against my forehead she chugged the shot whiel I wasn't looking.

Now then, I said, to her and I leaned in real close. "Listen to me, Denise. Thsoe men from the state department? They're no good you hear me. Every single one of those fbi bastards are rotten to the core. There's not a good man among them...."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about Tom being fbi, but I did not have the go command. So instead, I said. I lied to my own flesh and blood and said, "Look. I know a doctor. She's a good doctor. A friend of mine who drives a bus like I do recommended her. Jeannie doesn't know her. I'll contact her right away. And I lied straight faced to her.

I called in the emergency number hand-written by the compiler of the dossier (ie. my contact) on the back of one of my new DHS business cards. I called the number and it didn't even ring. Someone answered it immediately. I turned away from Denise and walked away into the other room and, speaking quietly, I said, "too cold, have to come in. Quick pick-up. Same address. Yes, this is the go code. My name is Jenkem, Lee Roy Jenkem, and we're go for code..." then I looked around to make sure Denise was still lying down stunned on the futon, and I read off a long list of numbers from a command-code translation-phrase book.

When I came back into the room. I sat down next to my own kin, my own daughter, so

obedient and loyal, and I said, "first off, I'm your father. And as the Lord is my Shepherd, we have to get you an abortion right away, because it is the Only Catholic Thing to do. I called the nurse, and your Unkle Bob. Remember Bob, your Unkle?

Bob's your unkle, Denise, so if you ever need anything you just find the right person and tell them, "Bob's your unkle."

She then looked up at me and said, "Mom knew you would say that." I didn't know what she meant then, but I am beginning to know what she might mean now. She has been under agency custody since two this after noon. I have heard from my contact three times since then. Each was a shorter conversation, and all of them were before sunset.

And now, the lunar eclipse is over and the moon is out again.

There has been no word from my contact in the last five hours, and when they came to take her, they didn't say anything, and they didn't give me time to explain. I didn't even tell her these were the agency, and not the fbi, and I didn't get to tell her I love her, and I didn't get to tell her goodbye. I didn't have time to explain to her that they weren't from any doctor's office either.

I had to stall her, so I said to her, "It's the only Catholic thing to do," which of course makes no sense and was only meant to trigger her to react over-emotionally. I needed to stall her, so I raised up a strawman. And she bit it. She took the bait and bit the hook. This was all according to what I thought at the time, though now I am beginning to doubt any of it.

She took the bait I held out, "religion" and we played a round of Russian roulette, so to speak, but with no guns. She stood up and hollered up at me, "WTF do you mean, the "catholic" thing to do!? You know mom and I are LDS. WTF goes through your mind...

Dad!" and she damn near swung her fist into my eye, but then she collapsed down onto the futon on account of the shot of bourbon I'd given her. She was distraught and drunk.

Look, honey, I said, Daddy doesn't have time to explain things. Unkle Bob will be here any second, okay? Just remember that, "Bob's your Unkle, Okay?" Then there was a knock at the door and it was them. They just said, "weve come for you Jenkem," and took her. They came to the front door and I escorted her into their hands. They ushered her into the back of a mirror-windowed black buick and drove away. I know now those men were sent by my contact. If it's time for prommotions all around, then he must have been made a MIB. I do know why that thought never occured to me before: he wouldn't let it. Now I know, but now it is too late.....

Those men who picked her up, were not agents. They were DHS. Agents for the MIB. My daughter is by now not only disappeared from the files and records of history, but has been deleted altogether from the face of this reality.

They knew because they'd bugged my house, that's how I should have known, but now it's too late. They didn't need to say a word, so alien, so void. They showed up in a black buick with mirrored windows in the middle of the afternoon at a hovel with a school bus parked out front and they had stepped out wearing black suits and mirrorshades? Nobody noticed them? But then I should have noticed that they didn't ask any questions. They didn't need to. I'd called the hot-line. They'd answered immediately.

They knew who to come for. I didn't tell them.

When I talked to my contact first it was within the first five minutes of the agents and Denise' departure. It may have been right away, but I can't remember. I think I was too stunned to understand what had just happened.

He called me on the phone, using a voice scrambler. He idneitifed himself by our code-word I'd selected, and he proceeded to tell me "Tom has Jeannie. We will protect Denise. But you must continue to let us handle Tom. He is to be considered a rogue agent, but the fbi have jurisdiction to investigate their own. However they did not move fast enough, and Tom has kidnapped Jeannie and gone awol. The fbi, cia, dhs and us marshalls are currently after him, but we do not want you to know the location of his position. LeRoy, you told Denise not to trust the fbi. Now they'll have that on tape, and that could be used against you. So it's imperative that we remain strictly stealth on this, and that you have plausible deniability."

The second contact he made with me was when I heard the phone rign an hour later.

He identified himself by our code word and told me... "Denise had confessed to being a double agent working for Tom to try to out my contact. They had deloused her before letting her meet me," he told me, "but we have her in custody and she is safe."

The third time he called me he told me, "LeRoy, it's time to believe in something new and different, can you do that? Something strange and alien? LeRoy are you ready to believe?" He had idnetified himself by our pass word. But it must have been compromised. I should have realized that then. I realize it now. But now I have no idea who to trust, what to do, or what is going on.

I'm going to post this up now, if anyone's out there pray onto Jesus for me big time!

-LeRoy Jenkem Currently listening : Buddy Holly Gold

By Buddy Holly Release date: 11 October, 2005 2:38 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment Thursday, February 21, 2008 How I Killed Tom (and got another new job!)

Current mood: crappy At dawn I am beginning to go to sleep. I think I hear a knock at the door. I roll off the futon / couch and open the door. I see Denise, but I know it isn't really Denise, and I know immediately it must be a dream. Denise is glowing ultraviolet, and the light is being vacuumed away from everything around her into her own purple penumbra. Her skin is glowing white. She steps up the cinder block step of my hovel and says one word. "Moroni." I understand. Then she goes to say, "Kolob," but I silence her by touching the tip of my finger to her lips.

I wake up and the telephone is ringing, the laptop is pinging me and the outback dog is barking and snarling and acting like he's gonna break his neck trying to get off that goddamn chain. "Shut up Panther" I yell out the window at him, "get a fucking job!!"

So I pick up the phone while flicking upen the laptop. I am rubbing the salt out of

my eye and answering "Jenkem residents, LeRoy speaking," but the silence cut me off, the line went dead. I open the computer up, and I have got mail. So I open the mail. I have been invited to a private chat room via PGP. Well, fuck you ass hole, I think while I sit down and dust the salt out of my other eye.

So I click the link and enter my key. It is my contact. "LeRoy," he types... "first know that Tom is in custody. LeRoy, I'm sorry, Jeannie is dead. Denise is in our custody. As DHS you have the position of overseeing this multi-departmental interagency co-operative inquiry. I tell him yes I understand. He then explains a couple things to me about the last 24 hours.

As you have probably guessed, you were in some tight competition for a little while there for your current position. (Which reminds me, I still need to sign my oath and fill in anyy additional paperwork and send it in on appropriate stationary!) Then my contact tells me, "but it was never Tom you were competing with. It was Captain Teneal from the fbi. He was too old and had not advanced in rank in too long, though.

Tom was up for Teneal's position, so to ensure Teneal got the DHS job, and that Tom then got Teneal's post, they had conspired against you. They arranged to set you up on a fake charge in Florida.

As you may, also, have guessed, LeRoy, he says, and then confirms more of my suspicions, I also have been prommoted. As your and Teneal's contact, I chose you for the DHS joba s soon as Teneal and Tom got in bed together. When we finally had tracked Tom down, I still had not said to Teneal that we had been onto him all along.

So he volunteered to go into the little hovel in Kansas where Tom was holed up with a family as hostages. All of this was happening yesterday evening around sunset. He said, by nightfall we had the place surrounded.

So we sent Teneal in as a negotiator. We sent him in wearing a wire, and carrying a concealed revolver, and we put a bullet prroof vest and a kevlar helmet on him, and we had the local fire dept. lend us some retardent pants. And Teneal goes walking up the front steps oft he little house in the suburbs where Tom is holed up.

As soon as he was on the front porch, I pressed a button from a remote location and detonated a concealed cache of plastiq inside his helmet. "Open Fire!" I yelled, using the Tonkin excuse.

At this point I stopped him because by then I was fully awake and aware of the full implications of the meaning of the scene he was describing. You told your men to open fire on the house where Tom was holding my WIFE hostage? No, he told me, matter of factly. He'd decapitated her hours before all this went down.

I looked down at my ring and contemplated chewing off my finger.

Oh, sorry. I swallow. Please go on.

By this time I was on the scene via telecon to some agents on the ground. I was plugged in so I knew everything that was going on, and the boys from the local Swat loaned us everything we'd sold them. We profited from selling them infrared goggles, then we benefit twice from their use of them being to our regard.

Decapitated? As in beheaded, you say?

LeRoy, it's important for our mission your remain focused in on what I'm saying and on how I'm saying it, LeRoy. We need to talk LeRoy and I am telling you these facts in this order for a reason. I'm sorry, LeRoy, but you'll just have to listen. We didn't know at this point your wife was dead. So when I gave the go-code from my remote location to the boys on the ground to tell the locals to let Tom have some lead, I actually didn't know your wife wouldn't die in the hail of bullets. It was a calculated risk.

We killed the couple who lived in the house, their two kids, ages six and nine, and a neighbor who just happened to have been visiting when Tom entered the house after having been pulled in a routine traffic stop and run. He had abandoned his car, which the bomb squad was examining while I was blowing off Teneal's head. Once the ground guys opened fire on the house, the bomb squad pried open Tom's car's trunk. It was rusted old chevy. Inside a wide trunk we found your wife's body. I got the information as I was giving the go-code to fire, but it only confirmed my suspicions all along. I'm sorry LeRoy. We are continuing the search for your wife's severed head.

Now all of this was happening, LeRoy, last night during the total lunar eclipse. I had to maintain radio silence with you for long-term legal reasons, but I want you to know that I coordinated supervision over the entire operation. I consider this my office-warming gift to you. You're getting my old title, old man. If we still used conventual office spaces, I'd be moving out of mine so you could move into it after.

But I want you to know that, in this operation, everything was co-ordinated interoffice as smooth as my twnety-eight years experience has learned how to provide. I only hope that under your tenure, operations will continue to run as smoothly as they did under mine. Wish me a happy "reitrement," he texted me then, "i'll never have to work this hard again!."

And then he logged off and there was a knock at the door. Sir," said the young kansas agent who met my face in my door, "we've established a perimeter of twenty meters.

We'll be here if you need us. The command code is "Seuss." Remember your pad's sound-wired, so we'll be on the line listening for you. Then he stepped to one side and a mirror-windowed black buick pulled up. In the front passenger seat Denise got out.

She had an ashamed look and was casting her face down, her hair hanging over her face. In the backseat was Tom. The backdoor opens and Tom is shoved out onto the gravel driveway in cuffs and the car spins out.

I approach them, looking around. Above me is a sound-proof black chopper (possibly two). I know they'll have an eye in the sky or two trained on this too. I try to notice to stay out from under the apple tree so the sky-watchers can still see me. It is only just now breaking first light.

So I advance on their position. Denise keeps looking down and tries to side-step away from me as I walk up, but she is in ankle-cuffs and so she stumbles and falls onto the gravel driveway. Tom is bleeding from a gun shot wound in the left upper thigh. He is rollin around groaning on the ground. They have him zip-taped up like a fuckin mummy. "You fuckin savages" I think, but I don't know the haf yet.

I rush over to Denise and kneal down next to her where she has fallen across the walkway from the cactus patch. She's lucky she didn't fall into that, and I'm about to tell her when I see she has a huge shiner, I mean huge, swollen shut. She'd been hiding it under her hair, her hair so soft and smooth just like her mothers.

"You rat bastards," i grumble to the open air channel and know I'll never be able to lay a hand on my own duaghter again, that she will never trust me, that her mother is dead and that it is because of me, and that, even though her killer is about to die at my hands in front of her for revengeance, I know full well my contact didn't mention anything about her supposed "pregnancy" for a reason. Because it is true.

I know that is also why that Kansas boy didn't slip me any cuff keys. For either of them. They assumed they knew I'd do what was right. They were all wrong.

You hold still a minute, I tell Denise, I don't want you to upset the baby. That's my grand child in there I am whispering in her ear. I give her my revolver in a subtle gesture. Her hand is lying in her lap. I lift her hand and set the gun into her lap.

Then I replaced her hand over top of it. She looked up at me with her one good eye.

In the same whispering breath I am saying to her, still in a low tone in her ear, "now you just remember right and Bob's your unkle. You just remember right, and Bob's gonna be your unkle still for a long time."

Then I stand up and start to walk toward Tom. I picked him up by his collar and dragged him into my house. I guess Denise was just laying there out there on the rock lawn with that gun in the dim light of dawn, looking around, wondering if she was gonna get sniped, and she might have, but she's a Jenkem, and we're basically good people. So she held stil and waited for the right time. But I can only guess what she was thinkning while I was dragging Tom into my hovel.

I made sure to scrape his gunshot wounded thigh across my cinder block step too.

Inside the light under my exposed bulb for a ceiling lamp I could see those Kansas boys had really fucked him up good. Looked lke the swat team had gotten into him first from the look of the massive blunt object head trauma. He wasn't gonna talk. He wasn't gonna be able to tell me anything now. Some fucking cunt from the bureau probably had left a taser gun plugged into him, switched on and tucked into Tom's belt. The fucking feds have been working with the mafia too long. They fucking giftwrapped the guy for me. I mean, he killed my wife and all, but I mean, c'mon, I'm catholic. Have a little sympathy. Have some empathy. Have some taste.

Then I went back out and grabbed my daughter by her long strawberry blonde hair right at the root and, bending down, whipser to her, "fake it good..." Then I stand up and pull and hope she has got that gun concealed. She kicks and squeels like a stuck little piglet. I drag her into the house, and I slam the door shut behind me. In as subtle a gesture as possible, I catch my daughter's eyes with mine and put my finger lightly to my lips, indicating silence. She stares at me, then deliberately blinks "once" for "yes." She looks over at Tom. I look over at Tom. "He killed mom, kid." I tell Denise loudly. "But those Kansas boys loused him up pretty good. He's basically beef bullion for brains by now." But I turn on her then and I am holding the taser but it's off since I am rewinding its chords. I say, "is it really Tom's though?" She looks up at me and tears well up in her eyes and I can see that she was not lying to me. She does love me, afterall. Even after all.

You know, I say to her, I wonder if he can still feel pain? With his brain? Can we drive him insane? Insane with pain? I wonder if he can hear me talking, because I think he knows I'm coming in. I have casually set the taser aside and subtly picked up my power drill, that I keep next to the front door for ocassionally chaning my locks out. I look for a long time at Denise, and she looks back up at me. All I can think

about it "Little Orphan Annie," and "Raggidy Anne," and "Eeyore" the "Pooh." She looks up at me, but a floppy doll's now all I see.

I gun the drill and I can see Tom twist around and writhe inside his binds, pissing himself with fear. AHA! The scientist in me said, A Subject!! The Patient Lives!!

But I said nothing. This was in no way new terriroty nor new terrain for me. I'd tortured the survivors along the Highway of Death to Basra Iraq. Some of them knew about the barells of napalm in the oil well fires, and were intelligence liabilities as such. If even one burnt up little charred slice of bacon looking little child had survived the dusting from above, it was my unit's job to walk the line and "terminate with extreme prejudice."

I looked again at Denise, but she was not moving. All I could see was a broken toy. I know now I have destoryed our future. Any hope of a normal life for Denise has been permanently and irepreably deprived from her now and forever. I've disgraced our family name.

"Honey..." I say to Denise. "I want to show you something." So I walk acorss in front of her between her and Tom and I have the taser in one pocket of my jump suit and the electric screw-driver in my other pocket. I walk over into my kitchenette and kneal down to the mini-fridge. I turn around to my daughter with a jar of my own piss pickled shit and a gallon-sized lead thermos around a small vial of Plutonium.

They had delevered it to me late last night from the local labs. The courier had no idea. Just handed me the cooler, said, "careful it's heavy." And then he jetted. It was right after I'd written my blog last night. It came hand delivered. At 3:45AM. I turn to Denise and I look her in the eye. The one good eye. She blinks two times. I understand. The baby isn't Tom's. My revenegeance swells up within me like a flaming lava-spouting volcano. I am become Pele, goddess of Thor's thunder and of Hepahestos' steel, and sacrificer of virgins. I am become wrath.

Tom had tried to set us up and shake my family down from the day he was first assigned here. My eyeballs felt like ashtrays overflowing lit roaches and smoking butts. I bled from my left ear. I approached Tom. I knealt down close to his face. I could see a look of helpless horrr on his face, but his useless eyeball, the one he still had left, was rolling around in its socket and had turned a very murky, milky white. I could only imagine the Hell he must be in.

"It was me on the phone from my house. I just wanted you to know that. It was me on the phone from my house. There never was no other strike team. There was no team alpha set to scramble on the command of some occult figure. It was only me who was there, and I called you on the phone, and you fucking answered!"

Outside it was getting a little lighter. Denise was all aquiver but I knew if she saw so much as even a shadow move she'd cover me with that gun I gave her. Denise is a good kid. I hoped she was as good a shot.

I want to introduce you to my little friend. I told Tom lifting his straigning neck up by the head attached to the end of it. I let his head crack down against my bare concrete floor, and then I sat the jug of Plutonium down in front of him. "So, Denise tells me, it's your baby, Tom. It's your baby, and you've betrayed me. I hate you Tom. I

hate you. Now, then Tom. This...." I say pouring some Plutonium over him, "is heavy water."

He screams. The shit busts his epidermis into bubbling boils on contact. He screams, or rather, shrieks. It's hardt o describe in retorspect. I guess it's just one of those things where you'd kind ahvae to have been there to really get the full effect.

And this, I shout into his melting wax ear, "is some heavy shit." I drop the glass jar of fermented fecis on his head from the height of my hovel's ceilings. I turn around to Denise and say to her as clearly as I can "hold your breath." She gets it. She takes a big breath and then holds in.

Tom's body begins to twitch and flail. His head has melted into a hole in the concrete.

I turn around and jump back as the puddle started heating my shoe. I then say into the air so as to be heard by the open wires, "Seuss, Seuss, For God's Sake, Seuss!"

The boys swarmed.

Two came crashing in through my front windows and another kicked in the door almost even before I'd finished my sentence. The one who came in the door got it first since he tripped over Tom's splayed out thrashing leg and actually fell face first into the creeping pit. But shit man. It was as a suspected from Zambian days gone by.

There were two missing ingredients. Plutonium, and brains. Or rather, nervous cellular tissue. After all, every plague needs patients to suffer it, and victims to die.

What good is a lethally toxic chemical weapon without anyone to use it on, I had joked at the bar that night when Sherrif John Right took me in.

As soon as the little piggy to swarm through the front door tripped and fell into the cess pool, the second his flesh started sizzling as he hit the sloping surface of its side, noxious odoured toxic vapours filled the hovel and quickly. The two rats who busted in my one-ply windows had on riot gear. bullet-resistant plexi-glass fire chief hats don't mean shit against a deadly toxic gas. So I grabbed Denise by the armpt and I skeedadled us out the back door.

We ran into an agent's waiting arms. "Sir, was anyone hurt?" he says, "two men down, one dead inside" I said. "and a growing sink-hole in the middle of the floor.

Some kind of acid. It's immiting toxic gasses. I think it is Plutonium." "Plutonium??" the agent said, and he looked confused.

"Don't go in there," I push him back away from the house, "it's toxic. Wait till the fumes clear out. Get back. Fall back." So he complies and Denise and I and this Kansas agent run backwards as the Swat team swarms forwards. The young Kansas dick starts shouting "fall back," so I start shouting "hubbub, hubbub, hubbub!" and the crowd falls into general disarray. Denise and I manage to separate from the Kansas city boy and we dipped over towards my bus.

I shot the chain off her wrist and ankle cuff bracelets, and cut the zip tape they'd wrapper around her knees and elbows. My poor little strawberry shortcake! They'll pay though for what they did to your eye though. I vowed then. Little did I realise how soon it would all go down.

I pryed open the folding doors on the rig and we opened the door together with our strength, me and my daughter, and then we started up the stairs without looking into the shadows obscuring the driver's seat, but it was too late, the hammer came down

hard. It was my contact, and he was using my bus as his mobile Base of operations. I surprised him, in the chaos, but he surprised me too. Neither of us were expecting the other. But he got the drop on me.

He fired his gun into the shadows at the foot of the stairs and, hearing the shot come from point blank above I shot upwards into the shadows behind the wheel.

My contact was dead. Denise had been gut shot. The bullet had grazed me. All I could hear out of one ear was a dull ringing. The gun had gon off right next to my ear. It blew the ear drum out, they tole me later.

Everybody cleared outt the rear door when they heard shots fired. Outside everyone was yelling and screaming. Inside I had got it all summed up pretty quick. So I got behind the wheel and drove my bus in to the hospital. It was seven blocks. I come to run three reds, two yellows. I swerve passed a garbage rig and a gaggle of gosslings crossing the road. There was a siren as I was pulling away from the scene, but I think it was an ambulance just then arriving.

I took my normal weird and winding route through town. Everybody thought I was just a school bus. I kept within th e speed limits mostly but not alot of people were awake then, and I didn't have no trouble. So I got to the hosptial, it's a special Mormon church hosptial. And we pull up, and I stumble out into emergency triage, and am bleeding from my left ear. Plus I hadn't had a shower in days so I looked like a homeless drunk. I stumbled up towards the emergency room doors like Gonzo and Hunter on ether in Vegas, because my inner-ear's equilibrium was distorting my sense of balance.

Some dumb ho nurse come running out and I fell over onto my knees with ne hand cupped to my ear gushing blood and I pointed back behind me with the other. "That's my bus," I shouted. "I'm LeRoy Jenkem!" I'm a clean livin man. I work for the Department of Homeland Security!" She was looking around confused waiting for more assistants to come. I was hoping no cops would come. None did. None have. None probably ever will.

"In my bus, "I continued to yell to the triage nurse, "you will find, One dead agent from the IRS! Some papers in the glove box authenticating me as DHS. My daughter who is gut shot. I am fine. I will help you."

Two GNP's rushed out from admitting and ran past us. "I'm LeRoy Jenkem! " Is houted at them. "I'm an American citizen!" One of them turned and gave me a thumbs up as they ran towards the bus. I ran back wobblyly to the bus. It was jut as I had said. And there was the dead body, some papers authenticasting me, and my duaghter who had a bullet lodged inside her abdomen.

It turn out that it had pierced through her right breast and was lodged only shallwly in her outer muscle tissue along her upper stomach. It had happened at such an angle that it will leave a permanent scar across her breast, severing her left nipple in half, but it did not harm the baby nor traumatize it all. And yes... the baby is alive.

I was wobbling up behind the two techs, one was black and one was white and I was shouting still to hear myself saying, "this is my daughter, she is pregnant. This man is dead, he was my partner."

I am writing this in a hospital bed watching Doctor Phil on the one of those

televisions mounted on a swing-bar platform from the wall near the ceiling. Over in the corner of the room there is an armed guard in a grey street cop gitup sent by the local PD on behalf of the feds, the spies, the IRS and the MIB. Hell the insurance I have on me this won't even touch the bonds set away for Denise's college, let aloen my nest egg from Sandia. Hel, all I had was a busted ear drum. And it turned out Denise would be fine. She is in the room next door, but they keep the door between our two rooms open but our beds are head to head on opposite sides of the wall. She can probably hear me in here typing this now. Unless she is asleep.

It has only been a couple hours since all this happened. But I know now we are safe and sound, because Teneal is dead. Tom is dead, and now even my own contact is dead.

I then fall by default into the front of the line for his position and rank, and if I had that much pull, I would very much like for Denise to live safely. I know she will never live normally now. Not as a Jenkem. But she can at least be safe.

So I will post this up no w and ask you not for your prayers now, since we are already overflowing with blessing!

-Lee Roy Jank.

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By The Residents Release date: 02 November, 2004 1:52 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, February 22, 2008 When In Rome...

Current mood: crappy Before I checked out of the hospital a free living man with my daughter, now my only living relative, walking with me holding my right hand in her left, so she was walking on the good side of my ear, I went through the shit they had waiting for me in my contents bin. I filled out those forms, and sent the envelope in by a 6PM pickup mailbox in the lobby of the hospital. They had sent me a badge for DHS. So I had fitted it onto my wallet, and taken the last fifty bucks Teneal gave me in Detroit and then filled up the gas tank of my bus.

The little Mexican guard had been nice enough, and Denise hadn't said a word to no one even though we went through discharge in separate check-up rooms. We went and ate at a Denny's on one of my traveller's cheques. I didn't say nothing to her.

After then we went to Tom's place. Denise had got some sleep in the Hospital, but I had filled out those forms. So at Tom's I plugged her in my laptop and turned it on and showed Denise my webpage. She was up all night reading the blog while I slept.

Now it is already Friday at noon.

Denise caught her bus into school this morning like usual, and I had no job, so I have been sitting around Tom's apartment in his bathrobe. I read back over my blog. But there are some things about it that don't make sense. There are some things that I'd written down I don't remember happening, and there are some things I remember happening but they didn't get written down.

Now mind you I'm a catholic. I was raised a good goddamned catholic choir boy type, went to school with nun teachers in frocks, wore the shorts, played the sports, etc. So I understand I have to make confession. I know that, in bones, I took my sacred oath to make only one confession, my deepest secret, absolve me of all need to make any more, to visit the church. It was called being "set free from sin." You lie down in a coffin naked before God. They send you a Papal indulgence in the mail. It was rolled up in a carboard tube, addressed directly from the Church of St. Peter, Vatican City, Italy, and had a stamp with the Pope's face on it. It is in my backpack now, but until recently was hanging framed at the back of my closet.

But praying before a catholic alter I create in my closet-space isn't the same as going into the building, and reporting to an "occult" contact within an "unknown" secretsociety "within" the Church is not the same as making confession to an anonymous priest. It is the Church of Confession that is Universal. I have long felt a longing to return to the mother-church. I have felt like a knight, left out in the cold.

I remember what he told me when he first shook my hand on the college campus. He said, "want to know the secret answer to the mysteries of the universe?" I had always wanted to meet him, and they must have always known, or at least, one person knew, wrote it down, passed it on to another, who duplicated it, etc.

We sat down in an alcove behind some bushes. It was spring. He laid out the instructions I'd given in this blog for the rendering of HWD. He told me, "that is what every adaptative genetic leap of mutation has been caused by. It is how the foetus develops in mankind, and that is the evolutionary fingerprint of the development of our entire gene pool from the first trilobyte down to ourselves. The consumption of compost matter in each form has been the evolutionary trigger for the quantum leap ahead to the next biological step in the formative process."

I told him I didn't believe him. Then he told me a truth so astoundingly secret, yet so simple and obvious, I understood exactly what he'd meant when he told me about the chemical composition of this "ancient Alchemical elixer." After that my mind found it simple to fill in all the details to account for with my imagination any number of possible individual cases to explain and justify the who what when where why and how.

"Look," he said, "belief is irrelevant. Therefore, if you live by belief alone, you are irrelevant. Now, by that criteria, LeRoy, I'd say there's a few too many people around here, wouldn't you?" then he explained to me, "just because everyone believes it doesn't necessarilly mean it isn't wrong. If you know something through the senses though, you don't need to merely believe in it without ever really being able to know for sure one way or the other. So, LeRoy, what's your favourite flavour of ice cream?"

And I said, "strawberry," and he said, "thank you, LeRoy, we'll get back to you." And next Tuesday a recruiter agent tapped my shoulder in the hallway and whispered in my ear. That was in 1990. I was already 36 years old.

I thought for a long time after taking my oath about what he meant when he said that "belief was irrelevant," because my faith in the Catholic Church was very important to me, and it seemed to me then it was that which had been cut off.

I understood "faith" as "belief over time." If you believe in the moment, you have faith over time. So, if you did a good deed you'd have one moment of white karma, and if you did a bad deed, black karma, and at death then they would be weighed up. Each

moment you either believed in the power of the Pope or you didn't. So, for me "belief" was a good moment, a good deed, white karma, and then "faith" was equal to the amount of all of these weighed up at death. That's how much it meant.

But that's when I met Jeannie. And Jeannie had strawberry blonde red hair. But Jeannie was a Mormon. The Mormons are fairly strict about marriage, but also very evangelical. The way they explained it to me, Mormmonism was based on only the most essential, truest principles of the catholic faith, because it is based on only the most essential teachings of the gospels. In deep doctrine, it is explained that the visions of Joseph Smith are, in truth, a hoax, stolen from an unpublished fictional novel written by a friend of Smith's named Spaulding. The lesson is that there is only one message, but many ways are needed to get it across.

She helped me to understand what my contact had meant. I eventually realized he and Jeannie were both right, but that I had been wrong, and then it was like the eye of the sky opened up and the pupil of the sun dawned directly onto me. I understood then all truth was relative, or rather subjective, surreal and malleable, soft like skin, and pliable like plastic. Now I know my contact hadn't told me that formula, it was only what I had heard. Now I know Joseph Smith was a Prophet, and that a Prophet is the same as an unrecognized Saint. Now I know my oath in bones is only good so long as I do not need to make another, deeper confession.

And of course they told me it would be like this when they initiated me. They passed around the goblet made from the famous skull, and when I tasted the blood, I couldn't help but wonder whose it was. "Blood in. Blood out." They intoned. There is no "Ultimate Truth." This is, itself, not even an accurate statement. It would only be asymptotically truer, however, to say that there is no "Universal Truth" that is, or that can be known or expressed by, through, or to any of us, so long as we are alive.

And of course, there is plenty of talk on the other side of this by Jungian (collective unconscious) and Joseph Campbell's myth people (archetypes), about the same thing, but while the exotericists call it "psychology," we esotericists call it the "transubstantiation."

The mortal flesh, including the brain, can not know the complete Truth, it is like the ocean in a thimbel. God makes it possible, and, by our service to his church, we earn this reward, among others, kept within the eternal treasuries of heaven, and saved there for us for after we have died. We can retire, eventually, from karma. But life on earth is the job taken on by the pure spirit to deal in money, which is what causes the formation of the soul, as a go-between, a token to exchange, as credit.

How can one sell one's soul to Satan? How can one who is living ever redeem the fallen status of mankind from the contract made with the devil - to plague and torture, to tempt and torment mankind, like Job, but to ultimately exist exclusively to allow good to prevail in kinetic opposition to it. How can one buy one's soul back?

The answer we are given is good deeds. If we do what is right in the eyes of the lord, he will guide us through temptation like a good shepherd. However, what does God see as "good"? We cannot know. Although God can read all our minds, the mind of God is simply too big for any of us to ever know all of. In truth, we are to the mind of God like Satan is to our own mind. It's that same percentage game.

Like predicting the future. Say you make fifty predictions about the future. Each is different. Now some of these may prove more or less accurate. But it will always be the same percent rate of accuracy. Of course, if you make 5000 prophecies then you

will be right the same percent of times, but the number of accurate predictions will be greater by the same 100 factor increase. Say, you are right once in 50. But if you played the cards out 100 times that, you'd be batting 100 accurate predictions. Even someone who plays state lottery would have to admit, those are good odds.

Now, of course, we know that predicting the future works a certain percent of the time. Why? The future itself does not answer to anyone of us more than any other in this regard. We are all on average right or wrong about the same certain number of times. If we make two descisions a day, we're likely to be right about half the time, but if we make ten or twenty or even fifty or a hundred choices in a day, we're still only able to be right no more than half the time. We can only be right or wrong. So it's a coin-toss. And each time is 50/50.

So, why then does predicting the future ever work at all? Because once an idea is "out there" in the minds of even only one or two people, that "eureka" moment happening about the same idea two places at the same time sometimes, and as soon as the idea has been imagined, dreamt up, what have you, then it becomes a percentage point in the entirety of human consciousness. And new ideas grow fast.

Someone, somewhere, catches onto an idea at the same time someone else does. Each shares their confession with one or two other people. The idea grows at a rate determined by its benefit but only relative to its appeal. All of this is simple memetics. They taught me all this in CIA, but I'd heard about it in the army too.

So, once an idea is "out there," once it shows up on the radar, it becomes replicated at a relative rate based on benefit and appeal. But the rate of replication determines the percent of the total that benefits from and is appealed toward any idea. And you can poll all this too, it's basic statistics. Say I run an Anne Coulter web-site and I have fifty subscribers and 25 are male 25 female. Say rape-based abortions was the issue.

By graphing Y/N across a 25 X 25 matrix, you can determine more or less exactly how the Anne Coulter fan-base demographic of the audience feels about any particular issue.

All Nostradamus did was apply basic statistics theory to basic memetics. The result was that he was right as much of a percent of the time as his audience went out and caused his prophecies to appear to have come true by rigging certain events to resemble certain of them. And that is how it all works. The prediction always precedes its inevitable replication. Therefore, pro-active prediction becomes a plan.

And when any plan is acted out, it becomes reality. And of course, if someone appears to make enough accurate predictions about the future, they are considered a Prophet, and so forth.

Before we become aware of the fullness, the grand panoramic of the plan, we believe in it or not, and that is irrelevant to it in itself. But if we do believe, we can come to serve it, and in so doing find what it has in store for us as an individual. It is like a rat in a maze. Around some corners, cheese, others a dead end, around some corners, a shock, around others a way out. First I believed there was a role I was always meant for, something special and unique I alone was meant to be. Then I discovered the plan was real. And that's when I began to be able to see these things played out for me by fellow, elder initiates with my very own eyes. I learned about karma, or soulmoney. I learned of the fall of man, and how we can bargain with the devil, and the deal by which we have learned to outsmart him.

But it's stilll the same percentage of the time, the same percentage of the people, of

mankind, our souls, that progress, that are kept back for more work on earth, that ascend while alive, or that come back to teach, and it's all still the same mind overall, the mind of earth, and of mankind on earth, and only us, and so far as I am aware, we seem to be basically alone here.

Now, they say there is a certain amount of temptation to sin in everything. Evil things are sometimes concealed by beauty, and not all is ever as it appears. The devil, they say, is in the details, or rather, through the looking glass, in Wonderland, behind the cracks between what is real, "over the rainbow," in Oz. They say "a stitch in time saves nine."

I mean, you have to look at it according to chaos theory. See how it plays out. Toss the coin ten thousand times in the laboratory of your mind and test for a result yourself.

But once you've ever done this once, and it's an easy thing to do, then you will see, as I learned to see, that we are to God what Satan is to us. We are a spiritual degeneration away from Him. Hence our mortality in the flesh. We are not from here, so we cannot stay long. Instead, while here, we have to work to ignore temptations toward bad karma, or sinful deeds, and to remember always to pray on the Power of the Pope, in the name of Jesus, and to always say Amen.

So, what I say now is, Lieing is a necessary ratio occuring a certain percent of the time whenever information is exchanged. So out of all questions / answers, a certain percent will always be fiction, imagination, and lies. This is because of our fallen human condition. We live with, say about, ten percent of our entire existence representing evil, because we have electricity in, say, about ten percent of the tissues of our brains at any time. But this same ten percent or so will appear to us thus in all things, because space is a mirror of our atoms, and our atoms a mirror of space. Our perception is at a mid-point, between the dimension above and beyond our field of vision, and the dimension beneath us which we are within, floating in the void thereof. So, we see all this as "outside" of us (space) and "inside" of us (genes, molecules, atoms, quarks). The Alchemists called these the "macrocosm" and the "microcosm."

So, if there is so much as one lie within one person's mind, even one dream imagined though fiction, then that is a percentage of the entire mind of humankind on earth.

That same percentage will be reflected as the number of people alive on the surface of earth. As Satan is to us, so are we to God. We look around now, and we see a seething sea swarming with liars. This is the ratrace. Everyone trying to climb over one another to stay above the surface of the poverty level, struggling to survive. And so too a certain percentage of us do survive, we float, we climb over one another, then crawl, we walk on water, and then we fly, and some of us, in groups, or alone in special prayer can form spiritual machines we use to fly to other realms at other times. This process, the exotericists call "evolution."

I'll tell you what I call it. If atoms are star systems, and if dna strands are molcules of atoms, while constellations map the patterns of stars, and if galaxies are like cells forming tissue and the great filaments and voids are like nerve cells and the universe really is one giant brain, whose dream is our reality here and now, and whose consciousness is mine and yours and all of ours at once... if all that is the case I say that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a fucking duck.

And so the light-cone history of the universe by Stephen Hawking is just another

way of showing us the all-seeing eye of the prison guards above the pyramid built by our slavery to money. The eye and the observer looking at the thing are meant to be the same, while the light-cone history of universal "expansion," and the pyramid above the maze, are also meant to be the same as one another.

But what they do not tell you, what they cannot tell you, is that, aside from the eye, the pyramid is not real. Instead they show you rats all over it, like bees on a hive or like flies on shit. They tell you it's true, they tell you it's real, they tell you you need it but that you have to believe in it to get there, and they explain to you in Disney films from age nine months that God is a scary hologram and that Satan is the real Wizard, the "man behind the curtain."

They tell you there is an eye on top of the grave-mound. Only it can see. It is the "allseeing eye." It has the moral high-ground. It sees all from its advantage point, it is the "Most High," the "crown" of the "ghost king," because we are supposed to believe the last person to achieve it was Christ. Or possibly Mohammed. Or Joseph Smith. Or else it rests atop the head of the Pope. However it is obvious what this eye is. It is only a symbol for our own perception. The eye in the pyramid is the observer and their subject. And the observer is real, but the subject is not. The crown on the king represents the eye of the observer at a position of tactical advantage relative to their subject(s). This is all, at the core, a description of how a man is supposed to live.

Now, hedge your bets. In life we see it is better to believe than not. We see it is more profitable to service our beliefs than to go insane with doubts. We learn how best to obey, in order to earn rewards, and we come to understand these rewards as kept away from us in this life, stored to suit us and serve our self-righteous glorification in some magnificent life after death. It is all an illusion.

It is all a city in the sky.

But if you reject the basic nature of reality, this by no means means you are rejecting God. The basic nature of reality is evil. The filaments and voids are only that ten percent of the universal brain illuminated at this time by solar radiation.

That is all samsara, all manvantara, because it is the constancy of this low-level of pain by which we experience our consciousness of self, our physical self-awareness.

That is what the exotericists call "ego." We call that, esoterically, "God" as it relates to the macrocosm, and we call this same idea the devil when it relates to the microcosm.

God is the ego of the universe, and Satan is the nagging extra-ego in our own minds.

Some of us are struck by genius, capturing lightning in a bottle inciting new insight. Some of us, most of us in fact, are cursed by a djinni who nags us incessantly and tempts us to sin.

Ultimately it comes to a coin toss, and so the ancient Etruscans, who were very wise beyond their years, called the two forces of the above and below, fate below and destiny above. They said fate was part chance happenstance and coincidence, and the other part was free will, which is equally chaotic. Above, they said, was destiny, the orbits of the planets around the sun, the sun around the galaxy and the alignments between the galactic cells when the Chi energy cathects through the inter-galactic filament nerve cells in the universal brain.

Though there are many fates there is only one destiny, just as, there are many ways to die, but we all die.

So too, there is no real pile of gold floating above the sea of souls struggling to get up

above the rat-race hell of a maze below. That is to say, it is simply a symbol. It represents something else, and therefore is a separate something from what it is reflecting or rather pretending to be. Money is a lie. Success and fame are lies.

Popularity is a lie. All are one and the same. They are all something meant to be a stand-in representing something else, something other than that which they are.

It represents God and God is real, but the symbol of God, the eye in the triangle, is not.

It is a false idol, a representation of God, a reflection, a mirror, a mask, a mirage. But God is, of course, infinitely more than anything we can imagine. So if we imagine this bank in heaven, weighing up all our good deeds against the equivalent of cash prizes, then we are worshipping a false icon, a blasphemous image, and thus commiting a Mosaic sin, a mortal sin, a sin against the One True God. If we had all the good deeds of karma saved up for us in heaven, and God chose to strike us down, then down into hell we would go, and all those good deeds, to God's understanding alone, would benefit no one. God is answerable to no one, let alone to our blasphemous Tower of Babel, this brazen Apis, the Church.

However, again, hedge your bets. Just as, in life, it is better to believe and more profitable to plan and to act decisively, so too is it wiser to act beholden to the idol of the masses while alive, and to seem to serve it, but to in truth see God instead, and in your heart always serve only Him instead. Because obedience is rewarded in life, whether or not we may keep our rewards in the afterlife depends on our obedience to the Will of God while alive.

Which brings us back to the original question: "what is the ultimate good?" And of course, the answer is that there isn't one. Pilate asked Christ: "Quid Est Veritas." Christ did not reply. In doing so he spoke volumes of wisdom about choice instead. And this is the ultimate Good: to be obedient to the King of Kings, whose Word itself means Freedom. The false idol is Satan, and enslavement to him degenerates one into the equivalent of a lab rat. But Satan is only our human mind's attempt at a reflection of the true nature of God. It is like the logical hemisphere of the brain deconstructing the intutive hemisphere. Induction, deduction and conduction are all one, and it is all only that ten percent ratio again, playing the numbers game.

The truth is there is no truth. This does not mean that what is good cannot be known.

No, the ultimate masterplan, the true will of God, cannot be known in its entirety by any living man. This is the truly ineffable mystery, the free will that commands all our one true destiny, death. But free will makes it safe to gamble, and God gave us the capacity for reasoning and logic so we could understand Him. So we can tell the safest bet out there is to worship death with reverent fear. Even though we know, because Jesus told us so, that death is not a scapegoat nor enemy, but a doorway leading directly out into heaven.

So what is Good? Good is the safest bet. Good is when we prosper and feel justified in our beliefs. That is when times are "good." When we have luck on our side, life is good. When we are on an up-slide, and our inertia is good. Then we feel weightless and can stop time and step outside of ourselves with our mind because we will remember such times as long as we are alive.

So, what enables us to find satisfaction, to find gratification, to find validation for our beliefs? Their end is in their realization. Once we have achieved them, and all our dreams are accomplished, then we may then have knowledge (the rotten fruit), but we will sacrifice all that is truly good out of life.

For most people, their ultimate destiny is to die and burn in hell for all eternity. They exist only for that reason alone. It is their pre-ordained judgment, passed down through the true understanding of the real God, to suffer a life of sins. So, for the lot of us, it is Good and Right to serve our destiny, our pre-ordained gift from God. So many who should know better embrace the inferno anyway because they see it as the will of God. But those few of us who remain with righteous judgment and true understanding, we will see the truth in this: that it is Good to serve God obediently, because that is what we see being rewarded in this life. Because just as Satan is made to serve man by God, he serves only those who serve God themselves, and thus he tests us and tempts us to tumble.

So, we say, when Satan serves us, he is Lucifer, bringer of Light. When we serve God, He also enobles us, reserving rewards for us beyond all karma (tainted as it is by lies). And likewise, when we turn away from God, we fall from the grace of heaven, and turn our thoughts toward Satan's bargain. But when we see our souls as not our own, but as up for grabs, lusted after by a false idol, Satan, and saved only by blind belief in the Church, then we are already on the fast track to hell bound, already lost and alone in the wastelands, and with no guide but the saints of blasphemy, and the mystery of Babylon, we forget our responsibilities for winter for our fortunes in spring, and soon will never know what is real, or who to trust.

Only when we have seen all this and understand its current nature can we say we know what is the truth, though it is invisible, that we feel what is real, though it is not tangible, and that we serve the greater good of that truth, and that reality, even while the material reality is fallen, the Church is the false idol, the Pope Satan, Christ Lucifer, and the real God the apparent devil, we serve what we know to be true through and by doing what is right for the Church, the Pope, Jesus and God on earth, obediently, piously, and hope that there is a God, and that his covenant is to keep a running record of our bets along the way.

So, how do we finally see what is Good, and find the truth as abstract subjectivity? We do not simply do not, but we cannot, we are not capable. If God controls our bank, the church, because his will is beyond the capacity for our understanding, then we must trust the church, our bank, only while we believe in God. Once we know God, that is, have embraced and receieved open-heartedly the truth as abstract subjectivity, once we have found His land-marks as guidance, we do not need to tender transactions at the moral bank. At least such is the logic of the training they gave me.

However, the training first took from me my definition of catholicism, then rendered it, and gave it back to me as something strange and alien in the form of my own work for them during my time within their service. All it did was alienate me from my original faith. It took me twelve years after Denise was born to go back into a church.

And most of that time I was off on my inquest at the behest of my lone contact from the Jesuit Order, the so-called "Church within the Church."

But now I know. My faith in the Jesuit inner-Order is "well-founded" (ie. based on factual evidence I've seen for myself). They have somehow found out how to control the mass consciousness. And now it is time for me to take on a new initiate, and thus to fill the spot on my contact's Council myself. I have to let Denise read all this. I have to bring her up to speed. I have to give her the Trust and bond documents for college, and I have to make confession to her about why I've done what I've done and who I really am.

So, they told me they were Jesuits, a secret inner-Order running the Vatican, appointing Popes, and essentially managing catholicism, my faith, the universal church to whom I had once made daily confession. But now I understand it. They are not who I thought they were, but now I will be working with them directly. They were lying about certain things, and I knew so all along, but now I'd found out what those things were, and now I know the truth that those lies mean.

The "secret answer to the mysteries of the universe" doesn't translate. It's a dropped call. When you try to tell anyone the truth, the REAL Truth, it will come out sounding like jibberish. He told me the formula for HWD. So I'd studied that, the production, methods of consumption, voodoo dolls etc. I'd studied that while at Sandia in Zambia.

Now I understand he never told me that.

He told me the secret answer to the mysteries of the universe. But there isn't one. And so what I heard instead was a reflection of my own fate, like a waking dream. And how I tried to interpret that dream manifested itself as my seeking the Jesuit conspiracy within Catholicism, and finding (or being found by) Skull and Bones. Now I have been brought up through CIA training and am in the Department of Homeland Security. But have I lost Ariadne's Thread, the golden rule of moral life leading me like an umbilical chord back to my home beyond the heavenly stars?

I have remained, in my heart loyal to the Pope. He is an icon of God on earth. I am worshipping the idea of the Pope of earth as God over the universe. I have remained in my heart a simple scientist, a chemist, who loved Dinosaurs and a strawberry sunday, and I'm your father, Lee Roy. I love you Denise, and that is why I am confessing all these sins to you. your loving father, -LeRoy Currently listening : Greatest Hits

By The Ink Spots Release date: 07 November, 2003 7:11 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Wednesday, February 27, 2008 How I survived the weekend.

Current mood: crappy chemical ananlysis of the effets: part 2 I want you to know before I begin I am not meaning to endorse anyone do the experiments I have done, and am doing, and am going to continue to do too. No, I am doing these experiments for the sole purpose that no one else should ever need to try and do them themselves ever again. In the end I'm going to die, but we all die. So how I die only matters if I die doing something important. Like this.

Now then, onto the reassessment of my original thesis: Initiattely I'd stated, two things:

A) because I did not die, the methodology and dosage I'd applied were not immediately lethal.

B) therefore, the difference between the HWD concoction and the e-coli in Zambia was the missing ingredients: 1) Plutonium & 2) patient zero.

This was essentially confirmed by the events I experienced since. In the post office bathroom when I blacked out from huffing the fumes of the burning styrophome cup full of excrement, I had still managed to function normally throughout the full and highly official sitiatiuon. It was, although I didn't realise until recovering some twenty minutes later, not even until I'd gotten into my bus I'd begun to feel any effects.

Then later, in my shack, when I broke into Tom's head with the combination of the Plutonium and the jar of pickled excrement, it was evident that for the combination to assume immediately lethal qualities, such as the emitting of the toxic gas and the acidic effects on the concrete floor, then it was necessary to add the missing ingredients to the original substance. Plutonium plus human waste equals e-coli.

So what we are dealing with here is clearly two different things. On the one hand, consumption of this substance is not lethal. On the other hand, concumption of this substance is immediately lethal. The missing ingredient is therefore: plutonium.

I'd like to add as a Side Note that I don't think the effect of the toxic GAS started until after the cop had slipped and slid into the puddle. The gas was given off when living flesh came into contact with the e-coli that was made from Tom's dead flesh. E-coli is the combination of the liquid Plutonium with the bacteria of excrement. It can be born from dead flesh, but only as a liquid. From live flesh, it can be rendered into a gas. Okay, enough of the side-note, close=quotes.

Now, then I want to tell you what has happened since Friday when Denise got home from school. I was in the bathroom when she came in. I was cooking up the HWD and the bathroom was full of hot smoke. It was a suicide attempt. I know that now, that that was all it was. It was just my spirit trying to be closer to God. But at the time I thought I did die. I had written my Extreme Unction down to my daughter, and with God as a witness gone to the toilet to take my own life. I knew there was anly one way the House of Cards could come down next. So I bit the bullet.

I knew I would have to do the right thing by Jeannie. I couldn't protect Denise from down here. So I was going to go up, and in order to confront Tom and Teneal on the astral-plane with my contact, I was willing to do it.

I have to admit I was shakin like a wet calf. I was walkin up the stairs and down the hallway making the ingredients in my pants. So I got up to the dry-bowl and made it and then took a jar of vasseline, my lighter-fluid, and put some tp over my head and put my face over the bowl. I was just about to light this candle when Denise come walking in the door.

So she started shrieking once she'd seen what I was doing. But the neighbors in the

duplex were home so we couldn't have that. Their bathroom was right up against Tom's. So I took Denise by the sholders and sat her down on the toilet, closing the lid so she could sit, but also to conceal what I was doing.

"Denise," I said then and knealt down to her, "I need to know whose baby it is. I need to know or else I can't go on living. I was writing my last will and testaemnt for you.

It was in the blog, so you would find it later. But I was supposed to be dead right now.

So tell me, since I know you must have gotten sent from school because you're home so early, whose baby is it in you? Who is my son-in-law?"

And then she broke down and told me. She said, "there were six of them, Dad. They had told me they were in school for the fbi, but later I come to found out they were all just soldiers about to be shipped off to Iraq. My friend at the time, Sarah, she come to tell me she thouht one or two of them might have been Navy Seals. But she wasn't sure."

I took her up in my arms standing up with her so that we were both then standing in Tom's bathroom doorway and I was hholding her in my arms and she was crying. I walked with her out of there, flushing the toilet behind me, and we walked down the hallway and stairs to sit on the downstairs white leather couch.

She said to me, "Dad, why would you try to kill yourself? Is it because of my baby? It's not the Catholic thing to do. And why did you try to tell me to have an abortion? And who were those people you sent me with? And dad, what the fuck is going on?

But this last part she was whispering in a high pitch, and it was so soft t was almost silent, but to me it was ear-piercingly shrill. I'd had one ear-drum blown out, and the sound was just starting to come back throughh it.

So I clenched my hand over my ear, and she broke down on the couch crying. Then she said, "I'll do whatever you want, whatever you tell me to do now I'll do it. If you tell me to have an abortion, I'll do it. If you want me to have the baby that's fine too, whatever. But you have GOT to Tell ME, what the Fuck Is Going ON! Why have those men from the Labyrinth come for you. A. I want to know. And B. Who the fuck are the men from the Agency? Which Goddamned One?? And who are you, really?? I mean, are you even really my dad? Whose daughter am I?!"

And then once she was done I sat down next to her and told her, "Look, I ain't gonna lie to ya, from now on. The whole mess I'm in it's all explained in what I'd written. It's like I'd written, I'm a Jesuit, honey. I'm in the army of Jesus and I answer to the Pope alone. I have been on an assignment sent to me from His Holiness to infiltrate a sect that claims to be a modern descendent of an elder off-shoot of my Order. I was sent to find the truth about who is behind ... " and then I took her and showed her my ring, and then I said their name.

Her rsponse was predictable. "What The Fuck Are You Talking About!? Who The Fuck Were Those People? Why haven't you asked me any questions!?" But then it became obvious she was blacking out and flashing back about it and so, for the safety of the baby I put my arms around her shoulders and let her cry it out.

"Denise, I need you to listen to me. We have to communicate here. I am your father, LeRoy. I am just telling you all these things now, because I hope you can forgive me, but I have not been ABLE to tell you them yet. I need you to calm down and listen." So

she started to calm down, and instead she sat at the far end of Tom's couch from me, by the lamp, and looked me right in the eyes with those dusky brown eyes of hers and I am ashamed, I had to look down.

"Denise, listen. I have done terrible things." Then I told her about Zambia. I told her about the mass-manufacturing. I told her about the rumored plans. I told her about REX-84. I told her about the DHS, and then about the CIA, and then about Skull and Bones. I told her the name of my contact. I told her the real reason I'd been about to try to commit suicide. But by then, she leaned over and stopped me. "Dad," she reminded me, "I know all that, it's all in your blog."

"What I don't know is why. Was it all a set-up on me all along. I don't know! Maybe those boys really were from the fbi! Maybe you've made some enemies you don't know about, Dad, and now it's my life and the life of a child inside me that are gonna end up paying for it. What I want to know is WHY. If you kill your self I won't get to know that." Then she broke down on me again and was crying in my arms. "no, look, honey," I started to say and to try to tell her about all that I'd written down, about the Church being like God to man, but like Satan to God, and about the blood oath I'd taken to never confess, and about the ultimate good being a subjective truth.

But instead, her eyes widened, and she recoiled at whatever she heard.

So I knew then this was all part of the plan. This was nothing but their ritual, I knew then. I realized immediately I'd just told Denise, my fifteen year old red-headed Mormon Catholic daughter, the "secret answer to the mysteries of the universe."

"I want you to keep the baby." I told her. "But you have got to be able to stay alive to do that. And I cannot protect you. I am a liability to you. So long as I am alive you are in danger. That is what I am trying to tell you Denise. I half to die. But now I know.

Death is not as it appears. Reality..." I told Denise, "is wax. Death is just fire."

But then she stopped me and she said, "No, you look, Dad. You aren't making any sense. I need some straight answers. I need to know who those men were that you sent me to. Why did they hit me when they were interrogating me? I didn't know what they wanted me to say, then they hit me and told me what they thought, and when I cried they told me it was a confession. I want to know why you sent me to them. Were they Jesuits too, Dad? Were they men you had sent from the church?"

She looked deep into me and I looked away and started pacing. I said, "Honey it's getting late, and..."

But she cut me off then and said loudly, "LATE? You don't even know what time it is Dad! No, you're right though. It's far too late for me to ever trust you again." I reached out to her impulsively and she recoiled by instinct alone. My fate was sealed.

I'd crossed our bounds. "What I really want to know though, is what you think I am ever supposed to tell this baby about you. Obviously you don't expect to be around to help me raise it. You want to cash in and check out right now. It's pathetic, Dad. You're fucking pathetic."

Then she bolted for the door. I made a move to stop her. I stepped between her and the door. She stamped her foot. "OH? Now I can't leave? What the Fuck do you care anyway? I thought you were busy killing yourself? Why don't you just go back to doing that?"

It broke my heart to hear my daughter tell me such things. I remembered how I'd shot sherrif Right in the face, and I remembered crushing Tom's head in for killing my wife, and I remembered my boss Daryl, standing as close to me as Denise was then, saying "Leroy you don't know what life is." I admit now I came real close to just killing Denise.

I had tried to explain to her, but she hadn't understood. She probably never will be able to look back on this experience and rightly remember all I'd said. Ah well, it's in the blog, and the blog is on the web for God, Denise and everyone and all to see.

So I let her go. I slumped my shoulders and let her push me to one side and she went passt me out into the night. She got onto her bicycle and she road off.

I was crying for some while. I honestly didn't know what to do.

So I ended up falling asleep on the downstairs white leather couch pulled out into the middle of the living room to be within sight of the main door. I ended up thinking about Panther... wondering if he would haunt me... and I drifted off into sleep.

That was when I had the Vision. I had the Visison immediately. That is how I know it was not a dream. Because as soon as I closed my eyes, the Visiosn started. It was very bright, and it took a long while for my eyes to adjust before I could see. I felt wide awake, but now I know I was not.

In the Vission there were some angels surrounding me. They were glowing ultraviolet like Denise in the dream I'd had the other night, so that is how I knew who they were. I looked down and saw I was glowing white light. I wore a long white robe and it was glowing bright in the ultra-violet.

I said, "how am I here," but the sound that came out was "who am I here?"

"Your faith is well founded." And one of the angels came up to me and it was my contact. And the next angel came up to me and it was Jeannie. And the next angel came up to me and it was Teneal, and the final angel come up to me and it was Tom. They formed a circle around me. And I saw myself lying on Tom's leather white sofa and I see them standing around me while I sleep. I see from above. Then they look up at me.

That was when I was filled with understanding. So long as I lived, they could not harm me directly. That was why it was decided that it was not my time. Because if I died, then I would be able to collect my karmic trasures in heaven, and have immediate and direct knowledge of my own unique role in God's ineffable masterplan. Thus armed, in one hand my white karma of bets to get paid out, and in the other hand with my Godly wisdom of why He'd sent me down here to begin with, I would not only be able to defeat Tom and Teneal, should they yet side together, but would even be more powerful than my contact alone could control. That was why it was not my time to die.

Then I was transported to a base in Antarctica, but it was unfrozen, and I knew it was no longer the present. Then I was taken into a building I cannot say the proper shape of that was all made out of coloured panes of glass, and I was taken inside.

The four of them were there already. They were finishing up having a gathering as I arrived. My contact came over to me and he shook my hand. "Lee Roy," he said, "I'm

glad you could make it." He explained to me that he had established his case against Tom on my behalf in Council, with Jeannie to testify in my defense, and with Teneal to testify of his complicity with Tom in her death. The ruling had come down to terminate either you or your daughter, and this order is to be executed by me. All this while he and I had been walking around the outside of the buildings past some fish ponds built into concrete bench seats. Then we came back to the big green front door and went back inside.

Then Jeannie came over to me and she hugged me. "My head was waiting for me in heaven," she said and then laughed that laugh that was the chief reason she'd fallen in love with me, because I could make her laugh. She knew her laugh sounded just like a bell ringing. She knew she hand an angel's laugh. She always was my angel from beyond the Abyss. Now then, Jeannie took me aside, and with her I walked around the outside of the building again, in the same direction as before. And she explained to me, "Earth is perdition, we call it Teleology. Sometimes it is bright and we see far, but half the time it is dark, and although we can see the depths of heaven then, we cannot see two feet in front of our face. That is what being alive is like.

Sometimes "good," sometimes "bad," because it is a place of testing, of trial by fire.

And Death is the heat of flame beside the honey-comb nature of reality, but heaven is the pure essence of this fire's light." When we came back around, I had a terrible feeling I'd never see Jeannie again. She went in.

Then Teneal came out. He took my arm. We walked opposite the way I'd walked around with my contact and my wife. We walked around widdershins. And so I knew whos'e side Teneal was on. And he walked on my left side. And so I knew he was going to try to get on my ass. But he could not harm me, because I was alive, in limbo, where he could not touch me, since he was already destined for hell. Teneal and I walked halfway around that place before he spoke. He just gritted his teeth. Then he looked at me and spoke, "You can't trust him. I never slept with Tom. The warrant in Florida was all him. It was never me, and not Tom. I don't know why, but Tom's confession against me has damned me to eternity in the scorching inferno. I blame you, LeRoy Jenkem. I blame you." Then he went inside.

And Tom came out. He came over to me smilin and shook my hand. "LeRoy!" He shouted as he walked up, and then he grabbed me close to him and patted me on the back. But instead of shaking my hand, he was stroking my palm with his finger. So I recoiled. "What!?" Tom shouted. "Not friend nor foe am I! To LeRoy nor to no one." And then behind him from inside the building came out Jeannie, and she put her hand on Tom's shoulder, and Teneal on Tom's other side, and my contact behind Jeannie. And then they stood there, and they all just looked at me.

Then I woke up and Denise was shaking me. "No, dad, no..." But I was coming to. "It's alright, honey, it's alright, I ain't dead. Not yet anyway," I was saying. So she was catching her breath. Then she said, "No, I do. I believe you. I do believe you."

"About what?" I said. "About everything," she said and she sat down on the tilted couch. I understood, the time of the ritual was passt. In heaven, the hearing against Tom had occured while I'd been arguing with Denise, my daughter. Now that this meeting in heaven was concluded, we were both back to being our normal selves.

She got closer to me on the couch and hugged me. She said, "I love you, dad." I was almost expecting her to slide a knife in my back. But then I thought to myself about what would be the best bet in that situation. So I just had to hug her back and trust she wouldn't stab me. That is why I am still alive. I think. I do not fully understand

why, but it is for things like that. Because I think like that.

"Denise," I said then. "I have something to say, you need to know."

"No, Dad." Denise then said to me. "I have something to say that you need to know, and for once I get to go first." So I sat back and let her spill her guts at me. But this time was different. It was like this time she was cold and reserved. And it left me to think about those men who'd punched her in the eye. I'd sworn revenge, but then I'd betrayed that by seeing it as accomplished by my prommotion. What kind of father am I, really? I was listening then to my daughter. And she was saying, "Dad, look, it wasn't true what I'd said before. It wasn't true about the six boys and I was lying when I told you it was Tom's too. It was Tom who told me to tell you it was six boys, but it was Mom who told me to tell you it was Tom's. She told me you'd understand, but I knew even as I drove to your house it would already be too late.

Mom's last words were, "go get Lee Roy, tell him Bob's your Unkle." Then you said "Bob was my unkle" too when you sent me with those men. But they didn't ask me about that, and you told me to say it to someone I could trust. Well, I trust you, Dad... I do trust you. Not very Much right now... but I do trust you. Tell me what that means.

What is that code for? Who is "Bob"?"

So I explained to her with almost a nervous laugh, "it's a phrase they use in the bureau to identify agents in the field. When an agent sees a bureau boy, the agent can tell him "Bob's your unkle," and then the buraeu boy can protect them. Bob is like Unkle Sam, or Santa Claus. He is an icon. Like the curucified Christ."

"What agency, dad? Who is Bob with? Fuck that, who are YOU with, really?" And she looked at me with big brown puppy eyes and I could see she really did want to know.

It was not only the after effects of the exposure to the radiation from the other dimension. It was that genuinely was curious and wanted to know. She liked to hear me saying these things out loud. She was like her mother. A listener.

"Calm down, honey." I said to her. "I'm calm," she assured me, so I went on. "Bob is CIA. Agency is CIA. Bureau is fbi. But I'm with DHS. But I'm really a Jesuit. In truth, I won't know whose side I've been on until I die, and that is why I trust only the Pope.

It may be that this world is temptation, a paradise pepretually partially polluted. And I suppose some of us can find heaven on earth..." But by then I was trailing off.

"Okay, Dad. Okay," she said. "I am beginning to understand. But I want you to know I still haven't forgiven you for giving me over to those men and I still haven't forgotten their faces. When I can forget what they look like then I will forgive you.

And I want you to know that, though I believe you, I don't trust you. Do you understand me now?" And I was trying to say she should read my blog, but she raised her finger and continued, "and so I am going to reserve the right for you to trust in me. I am going to be your boss, Dad. How's that sound? You're in the DHS? Well from now on I'm officially commander in chief of the deparment of not giving a shit. If you're really a liability, then you owe me. But since I can't trust you not to screw me over, and since I know you'd even kill me in my sleep, then I'm going to not tell you who your grandchild's father is. And that will be your punishment. From me. You'd talked about perdition. So consider this a message from Mom." and then she got up and walked up the stairs and into her room by the bathroom at the end of the balcony hallway.

I didn't know what time it was. So I went in and looked at the clock on Tom's

microwave. It was 1:23 AM. I remember that specifically. Then I locked the door and straightened the couch out and went back to sleep on it. Then I had the Dream. This time, I knew it was a dream, because in it there was darkness just beyond every perimeter, when in the Vision I'd been able to see in vivid detail for miles.

So in the dream, I am climbing into a fountain in Italy. I climb up onto the statue of Laocoon in the middle of the fountain, and I climb onto his shoulders. I am stradling his head. Then I see there is another statue above this, and it is a statue of Atlas. So I climb up off Laocoon's shoulders and up onto the statue of Atlas. Then I see, beyond Atlas, a statue of Chronos. It looks like the grim reaper, but for some reason I know it doesn't represent death, it represents time. So I am beginning to climb up the crooked knee of time itself, and then I see far below me, under Atlas at the feet of Laocoon, the water in the fountain start to rise.

I keep climbing statues and have gotten onto the shoulders of Zeus's father when the water reaches the neck of Atlas. And then someone throws a noose around my ankle from below, and I cannot see who or how, but then the other end of the rope is lifted up above me and it pulls me up into the darkness into the air off the statue.

Then I am hanging there by my ankle in the darkness and I can't tell how deep the darkness is, I can't tell how high I am up off above the ground, but it feels like a great height. I look down, or rather, up. All the blood is in my head, I'm turning purple. But I make myself crane my neck back as far as I can, so that the pupils of my eyes will be at the exact polar nadir of my body mass, and then I open them.

I see there beneath me is a puddle of blood. In the puddle I see reflected strobing lights from above and below me. I look away and close my eyes. Then I look back. It is a lightning storm. All I can see are the streaks of lightning, like the edges of shards of broken glass, tearing jagged laser-like zig-zagging lines of light. Then I close my eyes very tightly. The lightning is flashing, and the pressure of the blood in my eyes is intense, and I am closing my eyes as tightly as I can, and I go pop.

Then reality turned itself inside out. I was dreaming then about killing Denise. I am ashamed to say it, but I dreamt I was standing over her bed in the moonlight through Tom's venetian blinds with a bloody butcher knife in my hand. But I knew this was not real, even as I was dreaming it, I knew it was only a dream. That's how I knew I was dreaming, and then as soon as I knew I was dreaming I woke up.

But I only woke up in the dream. Really I was still asleep. But now I was lucid, and so I took control. I flew up toward the strobing lightning in the thundering black oil clouds above, and then above the darkness across the ground below I flew for a while. I was looking for the base they'd taken me to, but I couldn't keep my eyes open. Below me all was darkness except when there was some lightning, and there was less and less the further out from under the storm I flew. Then the moon came out from behind the clouds above.

I rolled over on the couch restlessly and in the dream I rolled over too. I was flying lying down looking up at the moon above. And then I was flying upward toward the moon. I was thinking of the Pope and Denise woke me up.

It was light outside. She drew the curtains. I went blind. She was already in the kitchen cooking up scambled eggs and frozen sausage. She was wearig one of Tom's baggy college sweatshirts and some short-shorts, and she looked so much like her mother in the dawn's light that I started to cry.

It was Saturday morning and she didn't half to go to school, and she didn't have LDS services until almost ten o'clock tomorrow morning. She was asking if I was planning on going into church. Immediately I knew she'd got me by the balls.

"Listen to me, honey." I sayd to her then. "I wasn't lying to you about anything I'd said to ya, like I promised ya. But I didn't tell ya whose agents those men who hit you were, and I didn't tell ya why this was all happening like you asked me to, and I didn't get to tell you because you wouldn't let me tell me about." I paused to make her look at me in the eyes. I could see she was okay. So I come out and told her.

"Look honey, the name Jenkem. You don't have to keep it. If you don't want to. I will understand. I think, if mom were here, she'd understand it too. I just wanted to preface what I'm about to tell you by saying that now at this time." Then I explained to her about the warrant. I told her it was my contact. I told her it was to protect me.

In the event of compromise of my cover, I told her, "it could all be explained that way." But I also told her about the experiments. The "good olde days" in Zambia, when this obsession began. The days of penance as a bus driver. The recent groundwork I'd laid out for future experiments. I shoed her the notes I'd taken on ingedients in the pad I'd kept in my back-pack since I left Sandia. It details it all. "But," I also explain, "it was a set-up all along." Denise, I told her, "they've got your daddy by the balls."

"That's bullshit." Denise told me. She has got such a fowl little mouth. I don't know where she gets it from either. I am a pious Catholic Jesuit re-baptised a Mormon, and her mother was an angelic Mormon Saint! I mean, I curse, I guess, but damn.

"That's bullshit, Dad, I'll tell you what's true." And she came over to me holding the red-hot bottomed frying pan with the scrambled eggs and the thawed sausage in it. It was eye-level. She was trying to see if she could make me look at the pan like a weapon. If I showed her fear, she would have killed me. So Instead I keept eyecontact on her. I didn't look at the pan.

"That's bullshit, Dad, I'll tell you what's true," she was saying. So I sayed, "what?" and she said, "what's true is I don't need this baby. You want it. But I don't know why. You think you're some kinda super-spy, but I can subdue you in two seconds. I don't even need to pull your leg to twist your arm, to turn a phrase into a coin," she joked. I smiled. "Good, then. There is a human being inside there after all," she said, and walked back to the kitchen with the pan and put the eggs on the plate with the sausage and some toast and brought it to me on the couch.

"So let me tell you what, super-spy," she said, setting the plate of eggs and sausage and toast down in my lap and in one motion she grabbed me by my balls. "I'm the boss of you," she was yelling at me. But I could barely hear her. I was turning purple, off into a world of hurt like I cannot even describe. My daughter, God Bless Her, but she was a virgin before she got pregnant, and she told me she has remained in tacto since. She has never known the touch of male flesh between her fingers, and only once between her legs, and then only abusively. So, my daughter, my pregnant virgin daughter, God Bless Her Little Soul, grabbed my balls too hard.

I guess she had been trying to play around, trying to teach me a lesson. But for a moment, inside her white-knuckled fifteen year old girly little fist the seminal vesicals connecting between my abdomen and my testes inside my sack got wrapped around one another once too often and then pinched. I growled at Denise then making a sound like a mostly run-over cat.

My eyes fill up with blood. The noise inside my head pops on again for the first time in days. "No," i prayed. I knew it would mean I was going to kill again. The voices would be next,, and I would see me unable to prevent myself from physically obeying their commands again. I prayed against it, even as I was strobing between passing out and coming to with my nuts in my daughter's clenched hand.

"Let me talk!" I shout at her out of nowehere. My mind is exploding in pain. I am between two dimensions, one a dream of sleep and one a very painful vision. I am screaming inside. But I only breath out after a hard heart beat, "let me tell you what I have to say." So my daughter, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, fruit of my loins, let go of her progenitor's source of origin for contribution to her own conception, and then I gasped.

That was wehn I realized that the eggs and sausage were scalding my lap. I stood up and they fell onto the ground, and then Zeus himself through down the hammer of Thor from on High to strike me in my groin, in my loins, in the seminal vesical connected to my left testical.

I fell over again. I was sitting on it for a long time before I could move. The pain welling up in me, the tense bullets of sweat beading out on my forehead, and my gritted teeeth, were all telling Denise all that time I was incapicitated, and couldn't move. But I'm not sure she really cared to realize how much pain she'd put me in.

She tilted her head and smiled at me. Then she went back out to the kitchen and made herself some scambled eggs with de-frosted sausage and some toast. And then she came back to me in the living room and sat down at the opposite end of the couch. She bounced down onto it, and it jarred me, and I admit I nearly threw up blood for all of how it felt.

"So, now I'm the Grail Maiden and you are the Fisher King." she said as she sat down. and the wave of ain repeated that to me again and again over and over in my head for what felt like forever but lasted only five seconds.

"And you have to answer to me." She must have read Crowley. Up came her naked foot up into my lap and her painted toe-nails begin to massage my wounded groin. "So, tell me, Daddy..." And she bats her eyes at me... and she tickles my shit with her toes... "who do you think my baby's daddy is?"

I groan in pain and my eyes cross. It was about ten forty five AM in the morning on Saturday the 23rd of February, 2008. I was nearly passing out from the pain. And then I saw the glint. It was the Light. My daughter was seeing a beam of light reflecting from somewhere right into her eye. She was enjoying torturing me. Then I understood. It wasn't only the name I'd ruined. It wasn't even only the rest of my daughter's life. It was her mind. It had been turned to the dark and craven side, the perverse side Jeannie had redeemed me from, that scientific side, detached and amused as it tortured mouse after mouse in the same laboratory experiment. My daughter, I realized in pain, had become like me, ole LeRoy, a Sado-Masochist, one of the lot from Sodom and Gamorrah. Our pleasure and pain circuits are cross-wired, you see. So she took pleasure in my pain. And I saw this in her eye, in a spark of light I caught sight of reflecting a gleam off of her eye.

So I pissed blood onto her foot and she recoiled like a good girl and shrieked like there was a mouse on the floor. Her plate of eggs and sausages and toast went flying.

In one motion I was standing across the room from her, with the arm of the couch

and the full length of it between us. I was holding my testicals in my hand. The pain was not very bad, but the in CIA, I'd been trained to cncentrate on a cause of pain and to agonise as if I had a lower tolerance threshold in order to trick the brain into dumping adrennaline into the system. Poised across the room I was waiting for it to kick in. It was her move next but I could have killed her if I'd had to.

"Trust me, honey, you don't want to keep going there." I told her flat out. "I've been in the army, and in a Zambian jail, and I will not be able to stop myself killing you if you try too much shit with me. I am giving you fair warning." And I gave her fair warning.

But she was too bust laughing hystericallly at me. So I looked down. I had pissed blood all down the front of my addidas, and was standing in a red puddle on Tom's light colored carpet. I look back up at her confused. She explains to me impatiently, "you look like this chick from my school in the showers when she got her first cramps, Dad." I didn't laugh.

"So you want to know the secret answer to the mysteries of the universe, do you?" I asked her. This phrase somehow caught her attention. Now I understand why, but then I didn't. But I went on then anyway. "Oh, I see. You think you already know."

She looked confused a moment. I had her at a momentary disadvantage. "You think life and death are just a coin toss still. Oh I see." I chided her on, limping over.

"No, Denise, my dear daughter, my strawberry honey-comb, my knocked-up, broken, disgraced Jezebel of a daughter. Now I know why my contact set me up in Florida. He found out you were pregnant. So he staged all this, but now he's died. And your mother's died, and I still wish I were dead, and I'm about to kill you. Do you know what time it is?"

And she said, "Dad, it's 11." She said. "Eleven huh?" I asked. "Eleven." She said.

"Eleven, you say?" I ask. "Dad, it's eleven!" she said then. "Denise that is it. That is going to be our watch-word. I just told you the secret answer to the mysteries of all the universe. I want you to think back, now, and remember what it was that I'd just said."

"You asked me what time it was," and then I gestured as I moved further forward, closer to her, as she was poised barefoot up against the arm of the white leather couch. I gestured as if to say, "and...?" So she continued, cringing only a little bit, "Dad, it ... it's too complex. You were saying, you were gonna kill me, you wished I was dead, and saying that mom was dead, and that Tom's brother was dead...." and then a light went out behind her eyes, and I could see a flash of reason come over her.

She slips into it. "Denise, I'm your dad, it's me, LeRoy, and I'm here in your mind telling you to know that the pass-word is eleven, and whenever you say the password three times this will happen. You'll fall into a trance like this, and someone will tell you what you need to know. Then they will wake you up by saying eleven three times again. Just like this," and then I said, "eleven, eleven, eleven," and clapped.

"It's not up to you, Dad. I'm one coat-hanger away from the eternal inferno, and where are you? Off in la-la land!" She comes to in mid-rant. I am close enough to her now though to grab her by the wrist. So I do. "Denise!" I yell, "Bob's your Unkle!" and I pull her up to her feet. She actually lunges at me for my balls again. Good girl.

But I don't have time anymore. I'm a doctor with no patience. So I snapped her left

wrist just a little bit. Just a green-stick fracture. Her eyes went wide like somone'd spilled coffee in her pupils. She went to scream, but I put my hand over her mouth.

Her eyes lock with mine. She pisses herself with terror and salt water squirts out of her eyes and she can't even grit her teeth against my soft palm because she cannot help but scream. But my hand muffles it. And I meet her eyes with mine. And I think of Daryl, and I show her my war face.

So as she is screaming in helpless pain, she looks into the face of Satan. I assure her then, with my look alone, I am not fucking around. I will not toy with her. She will die quickly if I choose it. I have the power to remand her over at any time to men who have the Right to beat the shit out of her for no reason. She understands that, in my eyes, she can see the inferno already right then.

"Okay, so, enough with breakfast. I've got a better idea. How about I call your homeroom sister's mother superior and ask her who your child's father is? Or better yet, let just go down there." I twist her wrist and it is looks so pale I can see her blue little veins. She starts to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

"Or are you going to listen to me now for a change and not just pop bubble-gum?"

She whimpered up at me. So I twisted her wrist more and she barked out and slumped down into her piss puddle on the carpet. Then she hid her face under her hair. So I put her face down in her piss stain and twisted that wrist right to the hilt. So she squeeled one last time and then whispered "yes, Daddy." and so I kicked her little butt to the floor and lounged out onto Tom's white leather sofa couch.

"Now first off, you aren't the boss of shit. Second, you'll tell me the baby's father's name eventually, one way or another, and I know you'll do what's right by God too.

Third, you're only alive because I want you to be. That could all change any time. You need to learn how to live like this is true all the time too." She was on the floor crumpled up in a pile and I was leaned back in the couch. I was sporting my Addidas and she was halfway out of Tom's (and my) college sweat-shirt, looking like her mom but younger, and now looking hurt and abused, just like the rag-doll of Eeeyore she used to rub her stuff up on when she was twelve. And she looked up at me with wounded doe eyes, all adew with fresh tears, and said, "I hate you!"

"You say that now, dear, but wait till you get to really know me." I kick at her with my foot and roll her over onto her spraint wrist and so she looks at me with fire inside her like a lion, leopard or tiger staring down the hunter's gun. But I had the drop on her now, and so I said then, "Fisher King my ass. If you're the Grail Maiden, then I'm Mordred, Lancelot, and Arthur combined, and I can summon Merlin to kick your ass.

Let me tell you who those men were, the ones you'll never forget. They were just Kansas fbi conscripted to delouse you by my contact who is dead now. And I know you must understand what the "occult" is, because Tom's brother was my contact. Now tell me..." and then it dawned on me. I looked at her then. Denise my daughter. I was torturing her. My own flesh, my own blood, my own child! I'd become that man again. And so I suddenly broke down inside myself, and was letting go and sobbing with tears, but only inside, and I never did let it show. But Denise knew. She knew I knew. She saw me figure it out. She may as well have seen my hair's usual static-electricity pressure-drop and leave my hair flat on top of my head.

"Look," I started, "I'm exhausted. I didn't get any sleep last night. I had bad dreams.

Your mother's funeral is scheduled for today at noon. If you don't quit this behavior, we aren't going to make it there on time."

But I'd underestimated my daughter. She meant it. She could have loved me. In the hospital, when she said nothing, and she might have even been lying to me for a good reason when she told me she did or didn't trust me anymore before. But now I saw it. It wasn't the inferno of pain, and it wasn't the run-over cat look. I'd never seen this expression in even our most passionate love making sessions with her mother.

"I HATE YOU!" She screamed at the top of her lungs. "Fuck You!" She screamed, "Fuck Mom! Fuck Unkle Bob, and fuck this baby!" And she started punching herself in the stomach. "And fuck Tom and the fbi, and fuck Navy Seals and fuck, fuck, fuck the CIA! Fuck Bush, fuck Iraq and fuck that bullshit 9-11!!" She was finally letting it all loose.

She could really let her hair down I tell ya. But then, she is a red head.

"God no," I thought at the time, "Don't kill the baby! Do anything but kill the baby!" and the image of the briar patch appeared like a single film frame and then I dove at Denise who was on her knees on the carpet punching herself in the stomach. Her gunshot wound had started to bleed through its stitches too. It was on Tom's sweatshirt. Good, I thought. Her transfer to the Dark Side is now complete. She's got the taste for blood now, now she has got grit. Good girl.

"Denise!" I yelled as I wrapt my arms round her middle and stood her up on her feet.

Butt I'm a couple inches taller than her, so I was actually holding her off the ground.

And she was frantic. She really was out of her mind, out of control of her mind, at the time. So I was restraining her, to prevent her harming herself or her baby. And I had got her by the stomach and was holding her up a few inches in the air.

"We're cursed, father," she screams. "We're cursed!" I heave her over to to the couch and lay her out flat across the length of it. I back off and give her a read face and say, "Enough?" and to make sure she stops hitting herself I I reach over to the kitchen counter, grabbed the frying pan and told her if she tried that again I'd put her grits out like a light.

"WHY!?" She sobbed. "Why bother? You don't love me. You weren't there. You didn't protect me then, why would you now? You don't even know me and I am your own daughter, your own "flesh" and "blood"! And you think you care about this baby? You don't care about this baby! You don't even know who its father is!" She curled up like a foetus on the couch and started heaving crying.

Then I remember the trial in heaven. The verdict, it must have come down. "Denise," I sayd, "my darling daughter, I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I can only say it so many times, and I know it would never be enough anyway. But you should believe it. It's true. I'm sorry for everything Denise." I'd apologised three times. I sighed. She held her quivering breath. Then I said it. "Eleven, eleven, eleven."

Denise sat up onto the white leather couch. In her eyes a light was there, but had dimmed. I remembered the trick about pain tolerance to cause a rush of arennaline.

This is the same thing, I thought to myself, it's just a rush of subliminal suggestion being transformed into sub-conscious stimuli. Then I thought of blood and laughed.

"Denise," I told her. "I need you to calm down for me. Blink yes once if you

understand me." So she blinked yes. "Are you calm in there, Denise?" I asked her.

Blinks once. Good. "Denise, I want you to tell me who the father of your child is."

Denise said my contact's name. And then my worst fears were made true. But then it all made sudden sense. My contact had been handling Jeannie and Denise himself directly via Tom. Tom never had conspired with Teneal. My contact was handling each of them separately. And he pitted us all against each other, and when I came out on top he was trying to play me against my own daughter! He'd said himself, "this order was to be executed" by him. He determined who would be punished in this case, me or Denise, because he had overseen it all all along. So he must have originally told me the formula for HWD as a meme, to spin me into a patsy, again as always later, which is now.

But my mind reeled at the thought of it. He'd shaken my hand on that tech college campus. He'd shot at us as we'd come into the bus. He'd known that it was us. He knew we would shoot back. He set us up. He set us up through Tom. Tom was expecting my contact to have called him when I did. He had answered the phone, I gasped as I grapsed the full scope of the panoramic, thinking he was being called from Ground Zero by his brother, my occult contact. But he'd played Tom against me too. All along, he'd promised Tom Jeannie and Denise. And all along, he'd promised me a way out, a better job, but always only depending on whether I ever told anyone about Tom. So I almost told Denise, and now that's why we're in this.

But it was too late. I turned around and saw him standing there before me, not a ghost, not an angel, but standing there in the flesh, dressed like always, and saying to me, "LeRoy.... You don't really believe I died do you?"

"Belief," I gritted my teeth at him, "Is Irrelevant." So I cum up with that revolver out of Tom's bathrobe pocket. And he said, "LeRoy..." and frowned. So I shot him. And the bullet broke the glass French door at the back / front of Tom's duplex apartment. It overlooked a long field all red-taped off with blue-prints posted ready to be developed. Not one spade had yet broken ground. The bullet did no damage, wherever it may have come to rest. But God Bless Him, it failed to kill my contact. "LeRoy, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." He was saying.

So I plugged him one more time, taking careful aim at his head. No one was off in that direction for two hundred yards, so I figured fuck him. No one would come from the gun shot and glass door breaking sounds either. The duplex neighbor was the guy hiring out the contractor to dveleop the rest of the lots. But he worked a plus weekends job at a law firm running errands for $15 bucks and hour, and that paid for his cocain habbit. There was no one around for nearly a square mile. Tom had taste.

This time the bullet ricochetted around and came back to hit the couch right next to Denise's ear. She was still in trance, she didn't wake up. No one had said "Eleven" three times. But seeing that smoking hole chunked out right next to and so close to my daughter's ear... I couldn't have lived with it happening like that. So I put the piece away. It was only ever meant for show anyway.

Then I got it. My contact's motives. His master-plan. It all came rushing to me in one flash-freezing wave of blood soaking into my whole brain. He'd taught me "belief was irrelevent," so I'd learned "truth was subjective." But that is and isn't entirely true.

From my contact's point of view, the truth was only subjective insofar as that would prove belief was irrelevant. It had been Jeannie who'd helped me learn more than he'd taught me. But from my contact's point of view, truth is subjective only to the

extent that it is opposite belief, and belief is irrelevant. I knew then. I knew the subjectivity of truth was only a theory for me for a reason. I knew I'd only dreamt it up because Jeannie was trying to save me from my contact all along. But for my contact, it was very real. He was a sociopath, who just did not care.

So, what did I learn then? I had got the key then. All those time's he'd taught me, nudging me along the way, encouraging my "occult" studies, all of his wise guidance, meant absolutely nothing to him aside from as insurance to secure his terrible ambitions in the afterlife. All along he was teaching me that, for someone like him, for whom "truth is subjective," then "belief is irrelevent." But to the masses, belief is all they will ever really know. So they do as they are told, and worship God as they are told. But they are basically good people. But to my contact and people like him, people who are, by the grace of the Pope, rare and few on earth, the same good masses are like laboratory vermin. They are chattle that do not deserve to live. And so I saw the horrible sight. I saw how everyone must look to him. And I saw a world full of menstruum-covered abortions.

"You're right," I sayd then to the ghost. "You got the drop on me good." "LeRoy," said my contact as he paced around me and I paced around him in a circle. "You don't think you can outsmart me do you? Reverse psychology, how mundane."

"No, boss, I mean it," thinking of Daryl I say, "it's over with. You had Tom kill Jeannie. Then you killed Teneal. The Tonkin ploy you'd said. Then you had me kill Tom. And now you're here to tell me the verdict. You've just come down to earth from heaven and you're here to tell me if I'm to be held responsible for your ploy to frame Teneal for your having tricked Tom. It's fratricide that's the real crime. But you set us up all along. And now, just think about it... the only reason I'm even alive still is because you will it. You are keeping us alive for your reasons. I tell you I cannot confront you so long as you have died and I remain alive. But you know that. And that's why you won't kill me."

"There's no use trying to reason with me, Lee Roy. I know all your tricks because I taught them all to you. I've only kept you and Denise alive until the verdict passt. And so it did, just now. Le Roy, the verdict to come down from on high in heaven is: To Hell with Both of You." He smiled then at me. It was the first time I'd ever really seen him smile. It was almost melancholy. But there was the twinkle of a secret in his eye. And he knew he was a liar. But I had circled him around away from her.

And I thought about John Right, plunging me into that shitter, and saying, "taste your karma, you white devil! Taste it! Taste what you've done! This is my country!

Mine! You had no right to come here and do this to it! How does it feel now, white devil? Can you taste the death in what you've done?" And I remembered how whenever I'd dreamed of that, how I'd always seen Denise then, as an angel, glowing ultra-violet, and as about the age she is right now. But I don't look over at her then.

And then I thought about Daryl Brown, my boss from work. I had bought my own bus, so when I didn't meet standards reports there was nothing he could do about it, and the report writers from the safety and standards board of the city and state couldn't do shit about it either to me at least. They chewed Daryl out, then fined him, whiich I paid out. Then they were threatening to fire him. I suppose he must have got prommoted pretty hard once he'd fired me. And I think about what he said to me, "You don't know what life is Leroy. That's right, Leroy. You run, Leroy. You go be a man."

And then the next thing I thought about was getting between my daughter and her baby and any threat of harm to them. So I stepped between her and my contact. She was still in an alpha-wave state. But all of this would leave a scar. My poor strawberry shortcake was learning to take the thorns with the rose pretty hard now. But she is fifteen and she got pregnant. It's nobody's but my own fault for having had her in the first place, and God Bless the kid I love her so I guess it don't matter.

Then I said to the ghost of my contact. "You first." It was high noon. All of my fellow council-members had died but me. I was the only living member left, but the position came down to either me or Denise. They had all turned into ghosts who couldn't harm me. But my contact had brought the hammer down from God on high.

And God could harm me. But now it was time. If there was a righteous bone in my body, if I'd ever made one safe bet, if I'd never lost faith in His Holiness the Pope, and if my faith was well founded...

I stood up before the ghost. And said, "well, come on then. Strike me down!" But by then it was obvious he could not. It was entirely up to God, and to God alone. At that moment I heard the Pope's voice inside my head. At first he was mumbling some prayers. Then it began to become louder. And then he seemed to notice me there.

I sat down into a pile on the floor. It all came spinning down to me now. I was alone for nearly a mile in the house with my daughter, who was sitting there hynoptically tranquilized there on the couch. I was shooting a gun at the ghost of someone who only I knew the identity of, and who was dead, and who I, argueably, could only see from huffing raw sewage. It all came spinning down then.

I collapsed onto the floor. There was no way to win in the skin. So I would have to go above. And the Pope would be my guardian, keeper of my keys in the gateway. He would weigh my karmic deeds against those of my contact, and then I would ascend to above him, and then I would be the one to judge him.

Denise was tuned off. I writhed around in the flloor at the terrible gravity of my fate.

I was Lee Roy Jenkem! I didn't deserve this. They'll think I killed Denise and then killed myself. When they find us. They'll use me like a puppet, and that will be the end of it. I'll have ended mine and little Denise's life and aborted the cahnce for life of her child. They'll find us both dead of gunshots and they'll find my revolver in my hand. And I'll have done it. I honestly will. But it won't have been me. So I resign myself to it. I grit my teeth and get ready.

My arm lifts the revolver. It begins to bend at the elbow. But then a miracle happens.

And I mean not an everyday miracle like any of this, but a genuine extra-ordinary, super-natural out of the routine, mundane bullshit Miracle. I drop my gun.

Then everything inverts. I see Denise stand up. She is glowing ultra-violet. Wearing a long white robe all the light around her is being sucked inward toward her, and drawing out the darkest depths of shadows from within everything around her. She walks over to the ghost of my contact. I see he is wearing a reverse-colored robe. I see his robe is pink in the ultra-violet. That means it would be yellow ordinarily.

I sit there, helpless as a hundred twenty pound pile of shit in a fifty-pound bag, and watch as Denise walks over to him, and she is still in trance I realize. I do not know if he is really her baby's father. I do not know anything for sure, because everything I

thought I'd known before, including that truth was subjective, has just been revealed to be untrue. So what can I do? Gravity devastates me and I am swept out from underneath myself.

And I can't help it now the Pope is in my head, but it's too late he already knows it.

As Denise reached out toward my contact, my "Go-To Guy," my "Mr. Fixit" and my "inner-Order" mentor, I am swept up into the presence of the Pope, and he begins to explain things to me. He is only in my mind, I knew it then, quite clearly, even more so than I seem to be able to understand it now in memory. But he represents the part of my mind that has always beleived on the Power of God on Earth. He is just a messenger speaking between me and God. A simple priest, indeed.

So I am walking with the Pope around inside the Bascillica of St. Peter's in the Holy See. He is leading me lightly by the hand. His index finger and thumb are only lightly touching to my right index knuckle, but I feel attached to him with all the power of a selenoid. The energy he is feeding into me is so intense, and yet I am completely calm and at ease. The energy is pulsed, but regularly. It is as if everything is moving at once, including me. I adapt my sea-legs to the quaking.

He is leading me down from the altar. He is leading me the right way around the outside of the Baldacchino columns underneath the massive portico above the altar.

He led me around the railing to the gate, and he led me down the stair case leading to the catacombs beneath the altar. We approached the Pallium, the Confessional of St. Paul. To our left there lay the Sepulcrum and the tomb of John Paul the IInd, and to our right lay the grottos and the tomb of Pius the XII. He led me down a short stair case and around the Conessio Pallia niche to the Wall of Constantinian memoria. In front of this lay the crypt altar itself. This was where we finally stopped to pray.

All the while the Pope led me in this hallucination, this conversation directly with a non-existent God, He was conversing with me about the Gospel and morality. By the time he led me to pray at the tomb of St. Peter, the crypt containing his sacred relic bones beneath the veritable gravity-well of the Bascillica altar directly above, I was overflowing with Light, and Understanding and Wisdom.

"LeRoy," the Pope said to me, said he, "LeRoy you're probably wondering what it all really MEANS. You always beleived in an Objectively verifiable Truth. But you thought I kept yours hidden for you. You said it was like a bank. A bank of souls. For the Church saves, and Satan tempts us into his betrayals. So you took his bargain as a chance, at the time. You thought it was a gamble, to obey the path you thought you saw laid out before you by me, even though it was a long and crooked road. But you believed I'd sent you the Plenary Indulgence. You believed in my rewarding your mission. So you have brought before me this evidence, in session, about how Tom and Teneal betrayed you. And then about how Jeannie had died unjustly. And then about how you had accidentally shot your own contact. And now you come to me and say, it was all the fault of your contact and that he is all to blame. LeRoy," the angel of pure light said to me, "I do not care. I have got more important things to do than listen to you complain. I'm the Father of the Mother Church of Christ the Crowned and Conquering Child. To me there is no mystery. To me there is nothing left unknown.

And to me there is no error in my judgement, and to me there is nothing wrong. I understand God's plan, Le Roy. Do you understand?" And I nodded in reverent awe that yes I understood. He nodded as he looked back away. "Good," he went on, "Because I want you to really understand what I'm about to tell you LeRoy.

"All this while you have been loyal to me. and as you know, that is why I am here.

Now, LeRoy, you KNOW this now. You do not NEED to believe in it. Because now you are experiencing it with all your senses, and you understand how and why this is all happening, and to you all of this is completely real and in no way imaginary. I just want you to know, just so you know, that I know that you know what you now know.

Because I am here too. As per your request. But Le Roy, oh, little lost Le Roy. My wayward soldier.

"I will now tell you the truth. Heavy hangs the head who wears the crown. Because, no matter who is appointed to wear it, and regardless of by whom they are appointed to do so, once they have set the Holy Diadem atop their crowns, then they know, as you know now, LeRoy; only whereas you know next to nothing, they know all there is to know. And many good men have turned bad on crowning. And many bad men have turned good. But the crown only makes us like we already are only moreso. It is only an occulus to the heaven beyond. It is an lens for looking into death.

"LeRoy, I'm going to confess something now. I'm going to make a confession to you, LeRoy. How does that make you feel? The Pope of your own faith making his confession to you, a meager Jesuit soldier. But I will. I am only a priest, and I try to be a Good Shepherd. But my flock is very large, and needless to say I have alot on my mind. So along time ago, I started to delegate. And by now, LeRoy, you can see this has worked quite well. But LeRoy, even though I wear the crooked crown of Christ, I am only one man. And like any one man, I have certain thoughts in the back of my mind that I have to keep forcing down too. These urges and repressions cause a certain level of distraction in my mind, and they then arise within the ranks of all those under me as certain whispered gossip and rumors, and ultimately we will have people fighting wars over these things. Now John Paul the IInd was gay.

"But you, LeRoy, you seem like a real straight arrow. So I'm going to come right to the point of it for you, Bob. It seems as though you see the Church as like the bankers of God, and as such a false idol, representing the fallen nature of our souls by causing the masses to blindly obey. But you say the God of the church is valid from the point of view of man, even though from the point of view of God, the Pope would appear to be Satan himself. You say evil is necessary for good to triumph. So you must understand who I really am, then."

And so then he stops and we are at the altar and then he turns away from me and kneals down in prayer upon the sepulchre of St. Peter's skeleton, beneath all that weight bearing down on us from the Bascillica and the portico over the altar above, and before the altar to the emperor Constantine on the reverse side of the Confessional of St. Paul. The Pope is intoning prayers. I can hear his voice whipsering them in my mind. Some of them are in latin, others in other European languages. He is speaking the Language of Angels, listening for the Word of God. Nostradamus knew this tongue. And I was hearing it now.

And then I looked up at the memorial to Constantine, and as my eyes phased out over it, it slowly shifted away like an etch-a-sketch of magnetic sand. In its place I saw Denise standing in the middle of the room. She was wearing Tom's sweat shirt and some short-shorts and was talking to an invisible figure in the middle of the room. I caught sight of the clock on the microwave in the kitchen. It was 1:23 PM. I remember that exactly. It was one twelve hour half-day since I'd been brought into Council. Then I knew it. Denise and I were both still alive. My contact had been sent to Hell by Denise while she was still in trance. Now, instead of me and Denise competing for one place on the Council, my contact was removed from his seat, and so

Denise and I were both to be raised. I understood then. My faith was well founded, which means that, underneath it all, only one who brought with them Light would be able to find it, but that it would still be there, but buried and concealed.

So then I knew, and I understood, that wisdom was to be continue to be kept me from me. I would xist in perdition buried deep in a dimly-lit cavern of unknowing. I felt everything coming back to me then, and it all began sinking in. So I said, "Eleven, Eleven, Eleven" and woke up Denise and told her, "honey we are late for mom's funeral," and she said, "well you're the one whose just been standing around with a dumb look on your face, Dad! Let's go!" And out the door we went.

And we drove in my school bus to the graveyard. It was a quiet, cloudy, overcast day.

It was supposed to rain, they said on the radio station on the bus before I turned it off.

We drove to the funeral in silence. They never had yet found the head. They suspect it will be found in the trophy collection of a serial killer whose buff on his insidertrivia. But I guess it doesn't matter, because I've still got alot of pictures, and alot of videoe tapes, and so it will always be there, that sweetness, that sweetness, it will always be there. As long as I keep hope alive.

So we got to the bone yard but it was too late. They'd lowered the casket, they'd tossed in the flowers and a handful of dirt. It was a very lovely ceremony, the asst. funeral director told us. Denise and I looked at each other. Denise went over to the grave. It was all performed according to the traditions of the LDS Church, she was saying, and they'd had a reverend Mormon minister come, and two young missionaries, pastor Gill and Sainted pastor Young, had gotten up before the mass and done testimony of how great Mrs. Jeannie Jenkem was for her church, and for her community, and for all the blessed people of Christ Jesus in all the lands of the Lord our God. Of course, she was butchering the terminology, but I got the drift.

I walked over and up behind Jeannie. I put my arm around her and said, "I'm sorry kid." And she was there in her Catholic school uniform, and I was there in my skatted on addidas that I'd left soaking in the sink for too long before drying for not long enough. And then it started raining.

The lady from the parlor came up to us with a golf umbrella, and so we stood there over the open grave of Jeannie's literally Sainted mother and I told her I'd seen the Pope. She cracked a smile. "Oh? When? Just now?" She said and looked at me askancely. So I said, "if there's one thing you'll need to know about being a Jenkem, shortcake, it's this," and then I farted very loudly and it echoed off the hills.

On the bus-ride home we didn't say shit. I ran the wipers at slow speed. I stayed under the speed limit. It was uneventful. And by then it was Saturday, in the evening, and Denise would have to go to service early tomorrow, ie. at six AM, on account of her mother having died and needing to make all the appropriate arrnagements for the Ministers presiding that day to make the appropriate announcements before the communion and so forth.

So Denise went to bed after we ate dinner from Tom's refrigerator. She walked up the stairs and down the hall and into her room and closed the door and didn't say nothing about anything that happened at all that day to me, herself, or no one. I watched the phone screen, it never lit up, she didn't even make any calls. So I stayed up for a little while and then fell asleep logged onto myspace having already typed out most of this blog.

But then at 1:23 AM I woke up. Denise was walking down the stairs. Up above at the top it was all dark. I couldn't see the ceiling. I realized all the light there was was coming from my laptop screen. And if was pulled most of the way closed. So I flipped it the rest of the way open and I called out my daughter's name. It was 1:23AM Sunday morning. I was worried about Denise being up so early. So I called out to her and said, "Denise? Denise is that you?"

She came up to me in the blue light and sat down next to me on the white couch. She looked over to me, and her eyes were closed. I knew that she was in a trace. She was sleep-walking. Now someone else would talk through her to me. It always was this way. They use our dead as vessels. It was how my contact contacted me.

So I sat down next to my red haired daughter sitting there next to me on the white leather sofa couch, and in the blue light of the computer screen, I watched her open her eyes. But because the light was so dim, I could not tell at first it had happened.

"Denise? Honey? Are you in a trance?" I gulped as I shrank back against the padded sofa arm. "Are you even in there? Are you a ghost? Is this a dream? Whose dream is this? where am I? But this last question distorted on my lips and to my ears it came out sounding like I'd said, "how am I?" instead.

"Fine." A voice came from below and behind me. "I'm doing just fine too, LeRoy. Thanks for fucking asking." I turn around and behold the land-crab. I was looking at a somewhat oversized fiddler crab. He was just standing there, and his antennae were quivering, and then I saw that his unreadable eyes were watching me. "Christ." It says after a little while. "Not even so much as a how-dee-do? Well, that's a fine way to say screw you too I guess." And he scuttles over onto the coffee table.

"I'm gonna be your new contact, LeRoy Ole Boy, so you'd better get used to the fact that I'm a crab PDQ and I ain't hardly bullshiting you." What the fuck, now my "psyche," or shard of the One God, had conjured up a land crab to bust my balls. And it was doing a fine job. I'd like to have shot at it to see if it could dodge bullets.

"You should know, LeRoy." it continued to chatter away to me as if I Even CARED! "LeRoy, first off let me say, on behalf of all of us in MIB, we apologies for your last contact's conduct while in office. It is completely and utterly repreehensible, and most unbecoming in an officer so highly decorated with such prestigious awards. We have got your wife's head safe and sound, LeRoy Ole Boy, so just you get some sleep on that count. Oh, and LeRoy." The land-crab said to me. "You're having a nightmare."

And then it lept at my face.

And I screamed and woke up and it was 6:43 AM and Denise had gone into her church on her bike already and hadn't even wakened me up. She had missed the informal Wednesday night youth group gathering for her church on Wednesday on account of that day she told me she was pregnant and her mother was decapitated, for which reasons she had also ditched school, and apparently the missionaries in her youth group were not so understanding about such things as the Mother Superior, so she went in early today to make ammends. "Apparently a good story could turn a frown upside down," she'd told me once. I'd replied, "that sounds like good advice, if you've got shit for brains."

I'd nearly had a heart-attack when I woke up and I checked my whole body naked in front of the hallway mirror on the outside of the bathroom door and looked in every nook and cranny for any anomolies, such as any hard new lumps under my skin, or

any recent paper cuts or vaccine burns. The ones that came in the triangle like the triple-shot gun they use to innoculate kids from measels mumps and ruebella all at once is an indicative symbol when all of a sudden it appears on the arm of a 54 year old man who'd never had no such shot before in his whole life. But there wasn't none, and so I ironed one of my suits I'd trekked with to Detroit that I'd carried it wadded up in my back-pack all that time. And then I went down town.

The sun was out. It was finally a really clear, and crisp and beautiful day. I almost had the spring in my step of a younger man. But I turned my measured paces to the big old catholic church in the middle of downtown. And as I am two blocks off I hear the bells start to chime. They are calling me home, my brain teased my heart. Jenkem, the bell it tolls for thee.

I walked right up and past the display rack of brochures for upcoming charity events and about ongoing fund-raising drives. I walked into the vestibule, and I almost walked right out again. But I forced myself to go into the inner-doors. I walked over by the cistern of Holy Water, and I walked over by the racks of prayer-candles.

At the cistern I wet the tips of my fingers, genuflect myself, and then touch my fingers to my lips. At the candles I think of Denise's face and light the wick. I place it on the rack beside a candle marked with a small Madonna. I am about to walk out. I felt like falling down in the middle aisle onto one knee, or even onto both, and shouting out the line from the Jesuit oath: "I will spare neither age, nor sex, nor condition, and I will hang, burn, waste, boil, flay, strangle and bury alive these infamous heretics! I will rip out the stomachs and the wombs of their women, and crush their infants' heads against the walls in order to annhilate their excretory race."

And then cry, "Father, why have you foresaken me?" and blow my own goddamned brains out right there at the inner-doorway in from the outer-vestibule. And a man walks passt me and says, "Oh I'm sorry, were you going in?" And I am standing there like a kid out front of a candy store, and I sayd to him, "no, pardon me." and so he walked in passt me. But I kept standing at the door looking in as it closed behind him.

But I didn't do that. I stood for a moment and thouht to myself, "my what a fine suit I'm wearing," instead and then left. I'd pilfered some change from the tithing platter by the vestibule door. Note to deacons. Never put your alms up front. People will pilfer from you. LeRoy's rules for life, rule number one right there.

So I bought a bratwurst from a cart and a newspaper from a machine and I was sitting in a park down town eating my bratwurst and reading my newspaper and those church bells chimed noon.

I fed the pigeons some of the bread crumbs and poppy seeds off my crust. Then I caught a bus back to Tom's side of town. I had to hoof it back to the house. This was all on Sunday by no later than 12:45 PM. It definately wasn't one o'clock yet.

I was finishing writing the blog and I'd gotten up to 1:23 last night when Denise came in. I jumped. "What are you doing, Dad? Downloading porn? Hacking Bush?" She smiled at me and I remembered her mother. She told me she'd read my blog at school, but it was alright, she told me, she hadn't shown it to anyone else.

I said I was working on another. So she left me alone and I typed up until I got to the church. Then it was late, so I went to sleep, this time in Tom's bed. I'd sequestered his

property for personal inventorying and priority investigation by my department when I'd mailed in my forms. So it was all legit. And since he wasn't ever going to get to again, I may as well at least enjoy his nice stuff for him while I still can.

And I found his cocain stash too. "So," like they say in Garden State, "there's that." I woke up and I hadn't finished writing out the blog. But at nine twenty five AM the phone rang. Denise had caught her bus to school all ready, and I was pissing vinegar when I got untangled from those covers. So I answer the phone and say, "Tom is dead, This is LeRoy. Leave a massage." (I actually mispronounced message.) A chipper young little gold-bricker was chirping at me like a bird over the receiever. So I put the phone to my non-busted out ear. there is of course more to come but I can only write when I have time so I decided I'd post this up now while I kept working on writing more to try to catch up. So here it is.

-Lee Roy. Currently reading : Pearl of Great Price

By Joseph Smith Release date: 02 July, 2006 3:34 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment Sunday, March 02, 2008 I Don’t Like Mondays.

Current mood: crappy So I answer the phone and say, "Tom is dead, This is LeRoy. Leave a massage." (I actually mispronounced message.) Then I said "beep." A chipper young little goldbricker was chirping at me like a bird over the receiever. So I put the phone to my right ear and put my thumb into my busted out ear so it would quit ringing.

She thought she was leaving a message. She said, "Mr. Jenkem," (and that's how I knew it was serious!) "Mr. Jenkem, I'm Kathleen with city waste management. I was given your contact information by someone from the FBI? Yes. So I am calling you to let you know that your residence... well, ex-residence now I take it... is being condemned. Now, there's no fees or fines to worry about in this case, Mr. Jenkem, that's all been taken care of. I'm not calling to impose any penalties. I was just told to call you to let you know not to worry about anything and that your Unkle Bob is out of surgery now. So if you need to get through to me, my number is..." and she told me her number. So I said, "Hello, Kathleen?" and so she said, "Hello, Mr. Jenkem? Hello?" and I repeated her phone number to her backwards, and she went straight to an interface protocol menu. "Voice recognition." She said. So I said "COUGH COUGH, this is your Ole Pal LeRoy calling in." And she said, "One moment while I reconnect you."

God Bless these modern agents. They initiate them even before hiring age these days.

But you gotta hand it to them. I mean, just look around. You'll never see one sign of anything weird. But sneak around, be a spook, snoop up. Investigate absolutely ANYTHING for just a little, and you'll see. It gets pretty fucked up pretty damn quick.

"LeRoy!!" an already all-too familiar voice said. "Where've you been all my life!?"

"On hold. Now do I come in or not? When's fine?"

"Well, we were hoping to see you bright eyed and bushy tailed, LeRoy. You're a man after my own heart afterall. Now look, I'm golfing on Jupiter until 11:30. I'm calling you because if you leave now, you will get by car to where I can be at noon by plane.

So what do you say, LeRoy? Does that math work okay with you, or do we need to schedule another lunch window?"

"Where to, then? I need to be back by 5."

"Tsk, Tsk, LeRoy, Ole Boy." he chided me. "We'll have you back any moment now." I hung up on him then.

There was a knock at the door, and I went over in Tom's bathrobe with my guns in both pockets over my single white stripe on red velvet addidas sweat-pants and my undershirt and my cross. I opened the door and it was an agent. He opened the car door and I got in. We drove off. Simple.

Inside the mirror-windowed Buick it was not the same as an ordinary Buick of the same exterior make and model. I mean, it was nothing fancy. Not like in tv movies.

But outside it was a normal looking car but inside a stretched limo. The interior of the cabin was all white. So I lounged out on the car-length leather sofa seat and poured myself a bourbon.

My new contact wasn't bullshitting me either. It took two hours one-way to get out to their farm out in the country. We took the interstate for thirty minutes, then got off four exits down from the last one nearest town. We went onto a numbered state road, then made a few left turns, and finally came to a dirt road. By that time it was 11:45.

We drove on the dirt road for about ten minutes, and then came upon two things I never thought I'd see without next dying or being killed for doing so.

We'd been driving through solid woods since we took the dirt road, it was trees in every direction for at least three or four miles. And here we come upon this massive clearing immediately, out of nowhere. It was really huge too. Massive, at least 4 and a half or 5 acres. The dirt road came to an end at a paved cross-road. To the right and left there was a one-lane paved road that seemed to follow the outer perimeter of the clearing. Along the further side of this road, was the fence-line. The fence was like any yard fence for a prison. It was about twenty feet, topped with constantine coils, razor-wire chords and inward-pointing barbs. On it was a small sign facing outward that said "US. GOV'T PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING." There turned out to be one of these little signs about every ten or twenty feet around the entire fence-line. We turned onto the cross-road. The driver stepped on the gas.

I tapped on the glass and asked him what this place was. But no reply. He just sped up.

That's when I saw it out the window. The thing looked smooth. It came down from out of the sky and it looked like nothing. It was cloaked. As it come down passt the treeline above the clearing then I saw it. It was completely glass, like a mirror. It was in a landing cycle, and as I watched it it flew along parallel to us for a moment. We were coming up over the ridge of a knoll. Behind the fence everything had been neongreen astro-turf, like you see on a putting green. As we come up over the little hill though, I see what I had come to see, what I had been brought to see. At the middle of the five acre clearing was a typical military camp. It had small barracks and a miniature excercise yard the size of a McDonald's playground. It had a public latrine with outdoor showers. Behind this and to the left from my vantage was the bunker. It was connected from the side of the yard furthest from the barracks by a gate,

guarded from a short turret to one side, which opened onto a lone concrete walkway leading straight across a fifty yard long open area, presumeably mined. At the far end of the long walk through the mine field was another double fence-line, (one separated the latrine / yard / barracks within the camp, another the camp from the surrounding mine fields, and there were gun turrets at every corner of every exterior fence line) like a narrow hallway. Behind the second, inner fence by another five yards was the bunker. It was basic enough. It was a cinder-block and shingle government building, as anonymous an any other. It had tall walls and narrow windows along the tops of them. The ceiling was flat, and there was a proper swaztika painted on the top for helicopter landing. "You mother fuckers," I thought.

"You could've brought me here by chopper?"

Then the phone inside the limo rang. I answered it and said, "If you'd like to speak to LeRoy press seven." And he answered, "You're late and that's funny. The good news is I just beat you here. The bad news is, I get the smooth ride, and you've got to come down the hard way." Then the son of a bitch hung up on me. "Driver!" I shout to the rolled up window, "there's no more bourbon!" and since the bench seat was on the driver's side, and we were going counter-clockwise around the perimeter, I had to crane my neck to see the land-crab's little toy ufo. He was standing there next to it waving, pretty as a picture. It hovered there invisibly, shimmering like a Nevada desert heat-wave, the poison of the snake-road. And he stood out there in front of it, waving to me. Then their entire quadrant of the lawn evaporated into an open hangar bay, buried under the knoll we'd just ridden down. Then the hangar bay eavporated and the lawn reappeared, but without the ufo. But then I saw why we were speeding.

The road was magnatized, there was a single strip of iron down the center of the single-lane. And contacting to this magnetic strip was a rod like they use on the tops of bumper-cars at the fair. Only instead of connecting to a cute little bumper car, the other end of this rod was connected to a huge humvee, coming right at us.

At the absolute last possible instant prior to impact, the driver swerved. And, for a moment, I was sitting spread-eagle on a white leather sofa watching through a limo window as it jacked out at 60 as a giant drab olive humvee travelling at the same speed, only going clockwise around the perimeter road, came within five or six feet of crushing me flat like a sardine in a long-cut tin-can. But none of this, it turned out, was as it appeared. We had ducked into a parking area through an ungated break in the fence-line. I looked back. I saw no such break in the fence line. As soon as we'd spun out, the driver stopped the car and turned it off. So I got out of the rear cabin of the limo. I looked back. It was an older black Buick with mirror-tinted windows. It wasn't a limo. So how close had I really been to being squashed just then, I wondered. So I looked back. But along the fence in both directions there was no sight nor sound of a Humvee. I tapped on the glass of the driver's side window. No response. So I opened the door. No driver. I stumbled backwards. A tube light started to flicker on, the lone lamp post in the middle of this otherwise empty parking lot. I realized then it was darker. I looked around. Much darker. It had to be at least six or seven in the evening. The trees in the distance were dark and the last of the sunlight was setting over their horizon. The silence was scorchingly frigid.

I was then left standing alone next to a busted up old black Buick with black windows, beneath a flickering, buzzing, flourescent blue lamp, and I'm sporting my red sweat pants with the solo white-stripe, my undershirt, a bathrobe, two revolvers. A crisp breeze sweeps across the midnight moon-lit field out there in the inky depths of the darkest blackness beyond the dimming glow. Then behind me there was a train horn.

I turned around and saw a single bright white circle of light and heard the hissing breaks of an railway engine. I looked down in this new light, more yellow, more warm, and saw my slippered feet standing on its tracks. I went to look up, but it was too late. The train was inches from my face. The horn started to blow.

"Bang," my contact stuck me in the neck with a compression syringe. "You're dead.

LeRoy, Welcome to Dreamland. Or the Red Lodge, the End of the Road, the CrossRoads." I turn around to see him but he has stepped back out of the circle of light into the shadow. I follow his voice as he walks around me clockwise, just outside my visibility halo. "We're not on ANY map now, LeRoy. No map could describe this place, here space is warped into asymptotes and time dilated daily. Once a day. You got here just in time to see it today. That was how I landed. I was coming back down, like I told you. I'd been up there, LeRoy, so I came down. They call it a "Stairway to Heaven." I call it the escalator. It's the easy way down. But you have to take the elevator. They call it, "Jacob's Ladder." Once I am facing away from the lamp post, I see a small light appear about four feet above the ground and about twenty feet off into the darkness.

It's an elevator button. I go up to it. It says "down."

So I press the down button and a door of blinding white light opens up in front of me in the limitless darkness. I step through. My eyes recover quickly. The light was not as bright as it seemed at first. But it was too late. There was no floor. So I fell for a while. Actually, looking back on it, I fell for quite a while. In fact, I fell so long I went into free-fall. In other words, I fell into this bottomless emptiness for so long, eventually I was no longer falling, but floating there, stationary, in mid-air. Now to some, this feeling would be very weird. Most people, the first time they experience zero-G, they chuck up their lunch. But I got grit. And a fifteen year old pregnant daughter to protect. So I pulled my revolver and aimed it at my forehead. My slippers immediately came down to rest on a cold marble floor. I saw the great seal of the US on the marble, and then I knew where I was.

"Welcome holme, LeRoy Jenkem. Welcome home." My contact stepped forward. "This isn't...?" I asked, hesitantly. "No, LeRoy, No." he assured me. "LeRoy, this isn't Atlantis.

Far from it. This isn't Area 51. Far from it. This isn't the afterlife. Far from it. No, this is now. Heh, well. Basically now. No, today it's going to be last Tuesday evening. You'd forgotten it was Mr. Brown's birthday the next morning. Do you remember now?

Then you might also remember it was your ex-wife's last night alive. We know you've seen her since then too. Not only in the appearance of your daughter, either. We don't mean in the flesh. LeRoy..." he trailed off, then looked me deeply in the eye. He said, "LeRoy, I think that you understand me. LeRoy I believe that you know what I mean." And then he smiles at me, and throwing his voice without moving his lips, he says, "Put away your gun here she comes." I duck my piece into the pocket of the robe, but keep it pinned on my new contact just for shits and giggles and I turn to see who he means. It's Jeannie.

She's running up to me from Tom's apartment. She threws her arms around my neck and hugs me. She wears her grandmother's pink poodle sweater. She smells like that fruit shampoo. I am ashamed now, but I buried my nose in that sweet red hair for what felt like ten thousand lifetimes. Good God, how each could now be counted up against me! She ran up and she hugged me, and she whispered in my ear. "Heya, Jankster. I'm glad you're here. Come inside." She is leading me smiling into Tom's apartment. I am the zero card tarot trump. I am Achilles, Icarus, Samael!

Denise is coming down the stairs towards us and she meets us by the city trash bins next to the bushes where Denise parked her bike. "Dad!" she bubbles and bounces up

and down, "You made it! Great, now we're all here, we can finally begin." I catch my wife's eyes and she has such a warm, welcoming glow. I gave her a goofy look and let the ladies in my life drag me by each arm up the side steps from Tom's front patio, and across the threshold into Tom's apartment. And standing there, behind the kitchen counter, across the living room from the main door we'd just come through, stood Tom, holding a huge butcher knife. My nerves suddenly kicked in. But Tom was wearing a blue chef's apron, so I didn't panic. I should have. I should have just run out of there then. But who knows? Maybe it's always been best this way. I'll never know.

And Tom smiles at me and says, "Who the Fuck invited Jenkem? This is supposed to be a fifteenth birthday party, and here he shows up with two strippers!" And immediately Jeannie and Denise fall into character, playing the part to the hilt.

Jeannie dances over to Tom and turns her ass around toward him and, arching her back, shakes it to an imaginary rhythm, while Tom dances behind her, pretending to be riding a rodeo bull, smacking her jiggling ass loudly while Denise danced in circles pretending to do the twist but instead ending up just spinning in a pirhouette with her skirt blowing up. I see her strawberry shortcake panties. Then I realize what is happening, so I strut into the room busting a move from the "Rocky Horror" movie.

"Work it Jenkem, Go Jenkem, it's your birthday!" Tom was shouting while he was smacking my wife's ass around. So I added to the levity, "Sorry I'm so late, I had to pick up some whores," and at first Jeannie stood up and gasped, and Denise, taking her cue from Jeannie, cover up her ears. Then Tom shouted, "Jenkem, you salty bald dog! These aren't whores! Well," he paused for effect. "They may be sluts," Jeannie playfully slapped at Tom from behind. And Denise inadvertantly put her finger to her lip and turned towards Tom. "But these sluts aren't in it for the money!" At first Jeannie says "Woo!" and throws her arms up like a goal-post. Then she acts like she's just "catching on" and then she looks around embarassed and kinda holds her knees together biting her thumb. Denise turns back to me for a moment, biting her thumb, then looks back to Tom. Tom then hollers loudly, enough, I realized at the time, for the neighbor to hear him say it, "These hoe's are in it for the cake!" And Denise jumped up and down clapping and Jeannie rushed to the kitchen and put fifteen candles into the icing. Denise hugged Tom, then ran over to Jeannie at the counter.

Tom came up close to me. I could smell his after-shave. He stared at me until I looked at him. He leaned in and winked. "It's a strawberry short-bread cake." He says. "Have a slice."

So I walked over to my wife and loving daughter as they stood around the unlit candles and offered them my lighter. Jeannie lit the candles up. Then we gathered around the cake and all of us sang "happy birthday to you, happy birthday 2U, happy birthday, Denise Jenkem, happy birthday to you." And she went to blow out her candles, and the door right behind Jeannie and Denise, in the kitchen, that would eventually be the front door once all the other lots were built, but which no one ever used, the one I'd put a bullet through On Saturday, opened and a chill wind blew in and blew out all of Denise's candles. And fifteen candles was aLOT of candles! Did the door blow open? Jeannie was saying.

Then my ex-contact came in. He was taking his hat off when he saw me looking at him and then suddenly got a suprised look on his phace. He cried, "Oh shit! Who invited Jenkem!?" Then he hung up his hat and coat on the hat tree that Tom kept there only for him. "Now it's a PARTY!" he was saying, and he came up to me and went to shake my hand, but as I went to grab his back, he spread his arms open and

gave me a broad hug, wrapping his arms around me and patting me on the back. I kept my left hand on my gun. He was patting me down, so I kept my hand on my gun.

To let him know. To let him know I knew. That's when he whispered it in my ear.

"Tonight is the night LeRoy. Activate go-code six-six-six." Then he backed away and pointed at me. "I'm onto you Jenkem." He was saying, "I could smell your shit from a mile away." Then he turned to Jeannie and added, "I'm hip," and, turning to Denise, concluded, "I know what's up." He stepped back and stood between them and put his arms around them both and winked at me. "I know exactly who you are, and exactly what you are here to do."

"You're a rodeo-clown. And you're here to dance." I don't dance. They all looked at me, but God Help Us ALL! I looked down and didn't do the fucking dance. Then Tom, the "fireman" came to the rescue. "No, what he's here to do is to have a piece of cake.

That's why we're all here, right? I know that's why I'm here! So let's cut this mother fucker open and sink our teeth into some fifteenth birthday cake! Happy birthday Daenise, it anly comes but once a year." And so Tom, who' was a tall enough guy, took his gorilla-length arms and kind of hugged everyone in toward the kitchen counter under the one overhead spot-light. The cake was in the middle.

So Jeannie cut up the cake and Denise passed out slices, and she passed the first slice to my old contact via Tom, then one to Tom, then took one herself and put it up to her lips with her hand. "Denise!" Jeannie snapped at her. "Don't forget your father." For a half a second Denise stood there. She was standing in the same spot Jeannie had just been in. She struck the same deer-in-the-headlights pose, clasping her knees together. She looked like she was about to piss down her pale bare thighs. She turned towards my contact. He blinked once. She caught Tom's eyes as she turned to look at me. "You want this one, you old shit-head?" Denise held out her slice of strawberry shortcake to me with her little fifteen year old hand.

They all looked at me until they'd satisfied themselves I was aware I now had egg on my face, then broke out into laughter. Everyone but Jeannie. She was beginning to catch on. She was already sensing I was hiding it, but that something was about to go disastrously wrong. But she had no idea. Nor, for that matter, did I. Denise, who by then was almost pissing herself with laughter, turned back to me and said, "here, take it, you old fool!" and she pretended to be about to creampie me in the face with the cake slice.

"Denise!" Jeannie snapped at her. Denise whipped her head around carefully balancing the cake slice acting like she'd deftly caught it in mid-air. Her hair tips just brushed the cake and I watched as a single follicle caught on it. Jeannie was acting like she was ready to shank Denise across the counter with the butcher blade, and saying "do right or I'll cut your punky little head off." Denise whipped her head back around and her hair blew out the other direction then. "Sorry, dad." She stood up on her tip-toes and kissed me on the lips. "You know I love you." She stepped back down and turned around and gave me a look, and then she noticed the hair on her cake. "Oh," she remarked to herself, "I have a kinky hair on my strawberry shortcake."

I saw Tom inadvertantly shift his weight toward the leg closer to his brother. I had never known they had been brothers. But now I can see the resemblance. Somewhat like Nick Nolte and Gary Busey. But yeah, it's there. My old contact stood there like a fucking rock. His pants legs seemed to have shortened though. Jeannie shot Tom a glance out the corner of her eye so he snorted contemptuously to indicate it was all in good fun. "Denise is just horsing around," my contact said. "Lighten up, LeRoy." He

adviced me then. It was good advice. I should have taken it. I should have never done what I done next. It never should have happened.

Jeannie handed me some cake and I took the slice in hand and bit into it. It had whole real strawberries in it, I come to find out. Since I bit into one. And I had to suck the whole rest of the out-of-season over-sized mutant genetically betttered fruit into my mouth, along with the cake and icing. And don't get me wrong. It was good cake.

Jeannie had probably spent all day making it. But as I was looking down on the strawberry I'd bitten off, obviously too large for me to chew, my stomach suddenly shriveled up like a prune out in the desert. I realised the gravity of the symbolism. So I turned and looked at my contact. And then he looked at my daughter. And then I saw him crack that melancholy smile, and the touch of evil dawned within his eye. But Denise was facing the couch, and had her back to us, and even though she turned to reciprocate with some definate expression, I could not see what face she made back at him.

I understood it all. I'd been here, afterall, already. So I deuced it up pretty quick. My contact was there to play Tom and I against one another. Tom was there stealing my wife and kid, who I'd just found out was an fbi plant. And I was there to find out who'd emptied out my security box. But I was still finding it difficult to care about any of this. I knew what my contact meant. I understand what he'd told me. I could only do this once. It wasn't time yet for the theoretical T-4 alternative I'd heard rumours of once or twice in the halls of Sandia corporate, ie. the shop. I'd always taken it as carefully placed disinformation. Nothing serious. Nothing real. I didn't know what to do. All my gut instincts were telling me, kill them all. You have to! But I couldn't! So instead of biting the strawberry in half while catching the chewed off end with my other hand (which was still on my gun). But I, LeRoy Jenkem, did not do this. Instead I sucked the whole thing into my throat and damn near choked to death. This was due to my training, of course. But it was only just getting warmed up.

I'm choking and I stumble forward into Denise, who, God Bless Her, had her back turned. I'm choking and I stumble forward and I drop the cake out of my right hand as it flies up to my throat. I'm choking and I stumble forward and up comes that left hand without no revolver still attached to the fingers at the end of it. As I stumble into Denise, God Bless the Child! she topples forward onto the couch. She drops her cake in mid-air as she falls, and it ends up squished all over and down the front of her party dress. She is then bent over the sofa, and I have collapsed on top of her.

And at first, there is lafter. My contact laughs. Then Tom. Jeannie looks over and my contact looks at her, and then me, and then laughs. Then I see Jeannie laugh, and I know just how fucked I am.

"Get offa me, get the fuck up, seriously? Get the fuck up offa me, Dad, God Damn!" And Jeannie paused from laughing to say, "Denise! No Cursing!" and wag that blade at her again. As I stand up I see that my own slice of cake had fallen between me and my daughter. It must have landed on her rump right as her face hit the sofa, because her dress was bunched up to the north of where the cake had landed. As for me, well, the cake had landed on her hips, and I'd pretty much fallen into a spooning position over top of her, and so the cake ended up getting crushed between her hips and mine. The icing was spread out all over my groin. And then the cake dropped. It had literally clung directly to her crotch. Then it slumped off and fell to the carpet. Denise looked over her shoulder before standing up, and as I stood erect, I looked down at my Mormon / Catholic daughter, spread open like the Mystery Babalon, and could do nothing.

"Oh My God!" Denise screamed. "Don't look at me! Nobody look at me!" But it was too late for anything like that. Tom and his brother were both stroking their clean cake plates impulsively, and my contact was undressing my wife with his eyes. "Oh fuck me, fuck me, fuck me" Denise was mumbling as she rubbed the cake off of her panties. Some strawberries were dripping down her milky thighs. I looked around again. Tom's plate was sagging low in his limp hand as he openly gaped at the spectacle before him. He was aghast. It was like watching a car accident. You couldn't bear to see it, but you couldn't let yourself miss one thing. But Jeannie was looking at my contact, and my contact was licking his lips. And Jeannie started to lick her lips. I as trying to catch her gaze with mine. But I could not. She was under. My contact was controlling her with his mind now. She started to lick her lips.

"Christ Dad," Denise stands up to me, "you must be in la-la land, you clumsy old shit for brains! I can't trust you long enough to turn my back on you for one second. I'm ashamed to be a Jenkem when I'm around you, Dad. And seriously? You smell like feet. Ugh!" So she had dusted must of the cake crumbs out of her butt crack with one hand and the rest off of her party blouse with the other while she talked. She looked up and around the room, but she had to look over my shoulder. I can't say what she saw then. But she looked at me at last and her ugly little brown eyes were welling up with tears. "Mom." She said to Jeannie behind me. "I'm borrowing the fucking car.

Call me on my jelly if you need me." and she snatched the keys off Jeannie's purse next to the main door and stormed out before I could stop her.

Then I turned around. I took note it was then exactly 9PM. I could feel myself elsewhere pressing return and posting the first chemical analysis of the effects (of using HWD) as a blog on the myspace page. So I blinked as I was turning, and as I faced them fully, I finally opened my eyes. The entire lot of them were nothing but demons. I saw that much before my eyes were even partially open.

Jeannie was looking with a look of abject desperation after Denise. She looked at Tom and said, "Should I go after her?" But then my contact said "No. We need you here."

She cocked her head at him. She had gotten dropped out from under when Denise had told her she was taking the car, but she was still feeling really buzzed, I could tell. "I want Lee Roy here too see what we're going to do next."

He walked over to me and I had just stood there. I was screaming inside, "Jesus, Jeannie, take off after Denise! She needs somebody right now, and that ain't me. You ought to go put your arm up around that daughter of ours and go study out of the Book of Kings, or else of Acts. But Jeannie, Please, God! Don't let this happen." I didn't want it to have happened like this. Understanding was beginning to dawn on me like the yoke of that invisible egg all over me then. No redemption. No way back but now it would be an endless cycle like this forever and it was already too late. I wanted to go for the knife so badly. My grit rose up into my craw and turned to that same old bloody cud puddle of bile under my tongue. "Have you read any Crowley?" my contact whispered into my left ear. I wanted to puke.

Outside Denise was only just then cutting on the car's engine. She was only fifteen and didn't know how to drive yet. The sound of the engine come to jolt me out of it. I look over at Jeannie, and as my contact crept up on me, he'd sent his creepy brother creeping up towards my ex-wife. But this time I do catch Jeannie's eyes. I blink twice.

She nods inadvertantly then looks at Tom. My contact seen me do it. He whips his head at Tom and Jeannie. Jeannie then says to Tom, says she, "Wait. It's her birthday."

We heard Jeannie outside start to back the car up. She'd have to three-point turn parked between Tom's truck and whatever car my contact came in. I wondered if my

bus was out there too?

I side-stepped backward around the couch away from my contact. As Jeannie approached the main door from the kitchen, I caught up with her by the foot of the staircase. I clothelined her almost drawing her in close to me, then whispered in her ear, "hey. I love you. Blink once if you understand." She blinked up at me. Her eyes were like two cities in Oz! "Go tell Denise go to a friend's and lay low till morning then come find me at my hovel." I let her go, for one last time, but as she opened the door I shouted after her. "And Jeannie? Tell Denise that Bob's her unkle now. Tell her Bob's her unkle." Then Jeannie hoofed off after Denise.

I turned back around to see Tom in the kitchen behind the counter with the cake holding the knife and looking at me. I noticed then he'd taken off his blue apron.

He'd cooked that cake. Closer to me, but just around the awkward arm of the couch in the middle of Tom's damn living room, was standing my contact, who I'd been meant that night to first find out that he was Tom's brother. And Tom was fbi. And my contact had put Tom and I up for the same job, at DHS. But no one knew that. Instead of being able to say anything about any of it, instead I was forced to act a fool until I got my daughter off the scene. But now I knew it was too late. Denise had just seen Jeannie for the final time. My training was just beginning to kick in. And I knew something they did not. The "secret answer to the mysteries of the universe."

I knew then. I had it all figured out. My contact was there too. He'd been prommoted.

So he was MIB then. But he was there from a few days before me. So he had the drop on me. He still astounds me. He knew all that would happen here the whole time he'd been hunting down Tom, his own brother. He'd sent Teneal in as bait, sent him to his death, when the man had never done nothing. And Jeannie's body had had no head.

So someone standing in that room now would cut off her head. I knew that much. But I knew my contact had already known who it was all along. And then I'd sent Denise into him, but she didn't know it was him. And then after killing Tom I'd shot him in the face on my bus. And he'd known all along that Tom was only his own pawn, via Teneal, but that Tom never even known it was his own brother setting him up all along. And then my contact had gone up to heaven, to the senate in heaven, and to the court thereof, and plead us all as guilty. And I was looking at him in his eyes. And he seen the hate in mine.

He was Denise's baby's father. He was guilty of fratricide. He had framed Teneal. He was here for MIB from Tueday, and I was there for them from the following Monday.

But I couldn't yet say if he would be the one to kill Jeannie, but by then I had figured out Tom had gotten popped in Kansas as he was trying to make it to Detroit, to rendevous with Teneal there. So I knew my contact knew that, when Tom left here tonight with Jeannie, alive or dead, he'd be headed there. But I didn't yet know who would tell him to go there, or why.

"Lee Roy?" My contact querried me. "What do you think you know?" Then a thought occured to me. Perhaps he'd made me for MIB. Perhaps, by my own actions, I'd inadvertantly let him in then on what I knew, from later, but that he'd hadn't known then. Maybe, this was his first mission on MIB too. Maybe, last Monday, he only knew as much what to do himself, as I knew what to do myself just then. So, I saw he was trying to figure it all out too. Just like I was. And he was watching me figure it all out.

And maybe he was figuring it out too. So I had to act fast.

"Me?" I replied. "I don't think I know nothing." But I am walking up to and past my unflinching contact and over to the nook under the stairs behind the tv. And I reach

around behind the tv and open the trim, and I pull out Tom's little baggie of cocain. I walk over to the kitchen, again past my contact, who was turned around to stay facing me. I walked up to Tom at the cake on the kitchen counter, holding the knife.

He was flinching pretty damn badly already by then. But I walked up to him and Slapped the sac across his face, and then dropped it onto the cake and it spilled across the counter. It was all over his face, the cake, the counter, and, as Jeannie walked back in the door letting the wind in from outside, it blew all over the kitchen.

"Lee Roy!" my contact yelled. So I stood up. I'd been leaning down over the counter, about to snort up some of the coke on the counter. I stood up with a dazed look in my eyes, "What?" I said. "You'll get your turn." And then he turned around to see Jeannie. "Jesus Christ!!" Jeannie yelled. "Tom, you told me you quit that shit!" And then Tom dropped the knife on the floor and it clattered. Jeannie stormed into the kitchen behind the divider so that my contact had lost sight of her as he turned to watch the wall, and so he had his left hand side turned toward me. Jeannie come up behind Tom in the kitchen, was stooping down, picked up the knife. God Bless it.

"It ain't mine," Tom stammered. "It's Lee Roy's." So then my wife looked at me.

"Jeannie," I said. "Put down that knife." I saw Tom's eyes. I saw he saw me see them.

Then I saw the mistake he realised he'd made. And then I saw him rationalizing. He was trying to figure it all out. But he couldn't. He didn't have enough info. So he was panicking. He didn't even look to his brother. He should have. I did though, he was panicking too. But I only broke eye contact from Tom after he'd broken eye contact from me. I knew it was already too late for him. The counter was four feet off the ground. It was between me and him. I couldn't have stopped him. I really cound't have. As God is my witness. I couldn't have.

He took away the knife from Jeannie and grabbed her in a sleeper hold and put th knife up to her throat. My contact was behind me, pissing himself, and I was behind that counter. And Tom was standing behind Jeannie. "Strawberry," I said, loud enough for my contact to hear me. And I reached into the bathrobe's pockets with both hands and felt my fists wrap around their handles, my fingers slide around their triggers, and I felt my arm muscles pulling them up fast. Then I did the timewarp dance from Rocky Horror. I moved around the counter and out of the line of fire between my contact and his brother. And I had my guns out both cocked. One of them I had pointed at my contact, and the other one at Tom. "LeRoy, Don't!" Jeannie screamed. Tom pressed the knife against her milky throat. I see my love's blood squirtting all across my daughter's fifteenth birthday strawberry shortcake. It was horrifying. But it hadn't happened. Not yet. "Lee Roy, no!" My contact yelled. "Stop LeRoy Stop!" Tom chimed in loudly enough, I realized then, to alert his neighbor. And then I realized, I couldn't pull the trigger. Everyone of us then was from the past, except for me. I was the only one left then, I realized, who might not walk out of there alive. But it all hinged on who knew later, which was the passt for me. So I thought back, as I had one eye on my contact, and the other on Tom as he was threatening to cut Jeannie's whole head off with that butcher knife. And I thought, he didn't cut her head off here. But I didn't think quick enough, and Tom had his back up against the front door. He was turning the knob open behind his back with one hand, and had that knife to Jeannie's neck with the other. "That's right, Tom," I told him. "Run to Teneal. Run to Detroit." Then there was a knock on the main door. I scuttled my guns away into my pockets as my contact turned around toward the door. It was Tom's neighbor and as he came in one door, Tom snuck with Jeannie out the other.

"Tom?" the neighbor calls in through the door. "Is everything okay, I heard shouts."

My contact is already stepping passt the neighbor out the door. "Scuse me," he say.

And then, from the patio, he turned to Tom's coke buddy and sayd, "LeRoy's got a gun.

Clear out." So the neighbor turns and looks at me and then takes off. And I am then standing in Tom's living room alone.

I am standing there in Tom's living room alone, and then came that all-too familiar voice. But it was coming from below me. So I turned around to look down at the coffee table. And behold, the land-crab. "LeRoy, Ole Boy," he was saying, as I heard Tom and my contact start their cars outside. "LeRoy, things might not make much sense to you yet right now. But you can sleep easy knowing you did right just now. You might not yet have all the answers," he was scuttling over to the cocain bag on the kitchen floor. "But there's that. So you've at least got that." He started rolling around in the coke bag. I gave him a moment. When he disentangled himself from the baggie with his fiddler claw, He handed it up to me. "You know what to do next, Le Roy." And so I went back over, hid the baggie where I'd find it later, after this was all over, and then I went back into the kitchen and I cleaned up all the coke with a wet paper towel. I put the naked cake into the fridge.

"So, none of this was...?" I start to ask him. Then I realize I'm talking to a crab high on coke. So I say, "nevermind," and walk out the front door with him. Outside it's a nice night, and off in the distance down the hill, beneath the single street lamp in the middle of Tom's neighbor's grandparent's farm field, was parked an old black Buick. The driver's side door then opened from within. I turned to where my contact was, but he wasn't there. So I started to walk down the field toward the car.

So I looked back. Behind me was the hangar bay, exactly as I remembered it, and then, before my watching eyes, it shimmered like heat lightning and turned back into the grassy knoll. I walked alone down the field toward where the car was. I got into it and closed the door. Outside of the tinting, it looked like day again, but I couldn't rightly tell. The cabin of the Buick was normal. It was a normal car. I looked into the back in the rearview, and it was a normal leather bench seat. So I gunned the engine, and the radio came on. It was "Looking out my back door" by CCR. So I threw the clunker into reverse and spun out on the gravel, then one eightied her and peeled out the break in the fence where I'd come in through.

The car turned its turn signals on automatically to let me know the way home. By the time I got back from my first MIB meeting, it was 4:47 PM on Monday. I parked the car next to my bus in front of Tom's place. As I got out and was on the patio, her bus from school come pulling down the street. As I go in I hear her getting home. As I go to the fridge, she runs up the patio steps, and as I crack open a beer she runs in through the main door. She ran up to me and threw her arms around me.

"Dad!" she said kissing my cheeks all over, "I saw that car. I thought they'd come for you. I thought you were being killed!" I disentangle myself from her and turn sideways and chug the beer. "I ain't dead, kid, but I've had the strangest day."

I told her all of what had happened and I brought her up to speed. This was Monday. I took some time to finish writing the blog up until the part when Kathleen from city waste had called me that morning. I posted it the next morning, and Denise read it while eating some tasteeohs.

Then it was Tuesday morning, the day of one week after the night of Denise's party.

-Le Roy Currently listening : The Good, The Bad & The Ugly (Expanded)

By Ennio Morricone Release date: 18 May, 2004 5:11 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

above: That’s just me pet rat, “Wrinkles.” opposite: If this van’s a-rocking, don’t come a-knocking.

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