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Issue No. 2
W I Z A R D S P I T, I S S U E # 2
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Dedicated to Alexandra, Aleksandra Alexis, and Alex
Photography by Calvin Todd, Tanner Brown, & Nicholas Nutting Layout and Cover Design by Chandler Reed
TA B L E
OF
C ONT E NT S
Legitimacy
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Seven Things
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The Sluttiest Girl in the Room
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Poetry
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Droppin’ Bones
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The About
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LEGITIMACY You hold that record in your hands. You finally found that one, rare record of that legendary band you’ve needed for a long time. “These are the guys that made me pick up a guitar!” you exclaim. You pay your 12 dollars, which seems like a steal, and you pour over it for the next few hours--listening, reading, and analyzing. “These guys are the real deal, there’s no question.” Hey there! My name is Hal, and I’m going to be writing about something I’ve been struggling with figuring out since I was 15. I understand this zine isn’t necessarily a diy/punk/hardcore zine, but it’s my background, and what most of my life experience comes from. I hope I can be general enough here so that this can apply to any style of art from a diy perspective; be it musical, visual, or literary (or any other medium for that matter). I’m not really sure when or how this happened, but there has always been this sort of line in every culture that is based on a form of art. There are the “legitimate” artists, and the ones that aren’t at that level. There are your Minor Threats, and your neighborhood punk bands who are recording a demo in their garage. There are your William Gibsons, and short story authors who are submitting 10 pages to cyberpunk magazines. Shit, there is Razor Cake and Maximum rock and roll, and there’s… well, you’re holding it (hehe just kidding.) So, in a diy context, can any piece of art be any more legitimate than any other piece of art? What makes a self-publishing author any more or less socially relevant than a publishing house best seller? Shouldn’t it be the other way around, since the self-publishing author is putting a lot more work into the same quality of medium? And what of the self-publishers that get more attention and recognition for their work than their peers? From an outside perspective, one definitely seems more… intent. One guy is trying to make this his life; the other guy is just doing it as a hobby. Right? One guy pays taxes on his DBA that is his copy-written pen name, and the other guy is just trying to sell books out of his house through store envy. So what’s the threshold? Where is the line that says “This is a real life thing”, and “This is just a guy mucking around”? I think in music it might be more painfully evident. There are the bands that everyone cites when thinking of a genre. There are also bands that play the same sort of music (possibly even before the “genre defining band”) but don’t receive anywhere near the same amount of recognition. I feel like most of this revolves around friends and networking, and the social hierarchy that is ever present in any society or subculture you might find yourself in. and yes, it stinks. 9
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My exhibit A for a band that has undeserved legitimacy would be CHAIN OF STRENGTH. Ok, so this band from California started playing this cool style of youth crew in 1988 to 1991. They put out two 7”s and a full length that was just the two 7”s put on an LP. Chain of Strength literally has 11 songs. Not trying to dog on Chain; they were really good at writing 11 youth crew songs and I really like those songs. But go to any hardcore punk fest and you will see a mass of their shirts and merchandise. I would say their contemporaries are Turning Point, who though are still largely recognized for being very influential for that decade, are not nearly as cited. Even though they put out 3 times as much music, toured more, and had a much more sonically diverse range of music, even while staying in genre confines they are not as widely known. You can sort of see the tricks when bands or artist play off of this, and most of the time it’s because they have people doing it for them. An example of this is the crucial diy band that has more interviews and reviews than songs; it makes you wonder. If legitimacy is solely defined by public perception, I think bands trying to go down that road would push their image and faces everywhere they could, at any cost, to achieve/maintain their level of legitimacy in peoples minds. I read in an Iron Lung Records article recently in the last issue of MRR, where they paid AV Club to talk about their releases. I don’t know how that makes you feel but it sort of rubbed me the wrong way. If diy culture is really about breaking away from the established structures of manufacturing, mass production, and digestibility, why would we use the same tactics to promote ourselves? The art of creating and producing as an individual instead of a corporate controlled mass is so powerful and so feasible right now with the internet, so why are we still resorting and responding to these old tactics? If you ask me, I feel that this wall of legitimacy is solely derived in the human mind, and that the only way to erase it has to start in yourself. It’s odd, because it’s something that advertising and social structure have promoted and fed us our whole lives. Like how this brand of something must not be as good as this other brand of something. Hell, the idea of brands is evidence enough! If we think about it, there really shouldn’t be art that we hold in high regard for the sole purpose of holding it in high regard. We should be basing our regards to merit of art--not attitudes, advertising, or social perception. Taste is vastly different than objective merit, and when we look at that, I feel that we can truly find the value in a work. Let’s get over this weird hump in our brains, expand our horizons, and seek out art that isn’t right in front of us. After all, every piece of art can be just as important and worthwhile as anything else we could encounter. By Hal Crossno 10
SEVEN THINGS 1. Michael Jackson—He raped kids you dumb fuck. Pop artists are all over the place and you gotta go and buy a rapist’s merchandise. Like something else, fucker. 2. Getting “Metalcore” mixed up with Punk—Minor Threat or (insert some really weird long name that is probably from a book that the band members have never read). 3. Longboarding on campus—You go the exact same speed on a longboard as you would if you walked. Plus you look like a dickhead. Who wants to look like dickhead? Nobody. So do yourself a favor. 4. Not taking advice from elders—So a girl you’re trying to hookup with has a boy whom she just broke up with and has vocalized that she is thinking about going back to him. Go ahead and grovel in the dirt and kiss her feet because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Listen to the advice you get from people who are older than you and have been through these situations, or when she ends this whole thing you’re going to look like an idiot. 5. Phone usage—CONVERSATIONS ABOUT HASHTAGS, SOCIAL NETWORKING FIGHTS, OR LITERALLY ANYTHING TO DO WITH SOCIAL NETWORKING 9 TIMES OUT OF TEN DOES NOT INTEREST ME. 6. Machoism—Not everything I say is a stab at your pride. Chill out or go to the gym and jack off with a few dumbbells. 7. Talk—Do what you say and say what you do. If you can’t, then don’t make up an excuse.
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THE SLUTTIEST GIRL IN THE ROOM: How Shaming the Halloween Whore Helps No One
The time of Halloween is here and the slut shaming is about to take on a side we haven’t seen since the Bikini Selfies of July: What a slut. She shouldn’t be allowed to wear that. What an attention whore. It never gets old and the comments never get clever. The costume industry is exceedingly sexist and the options for women are about as short as the skirts that adorn them. They shouldn’t even make skirts that large. She must be desperate. Have some self-respect. However, my real issue with the prevalence of the “Halloween Whore” is how horrible we are to each other. Can’t we be pissed at the sexist industry and still be kind to each other?
Sexual Agency and Slut-Shaming For many women, Halloween is the one night of the year where it’s okay to be overtly sexual. In the feminist world, we refer to the ability to make decisions about your own sexuality as having Sexual Agency. Sexual agency is crucial because it allows the woman to define for herself what her sexuality means and how it is portrayed. This includes how often she has sex, with who, and how she displays herself through actions and dress. On the flip side of this, we have Slut-Shaming. Slut-Shaming is the act of making someone (typically a woman) feel inferior or guilty for certain sexual acts or perceived sexual acts. This is why Halloween is so interesting. We have a 13
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time in history where women are taking more control over their sexuality and have the control to display it however they wish, even if that means dressing up as a provocative lady bug. Then we have the overwhelming problem of Slut-Shaming where we are criticizing someone for utilizing that power. Sexual Agency is absolutely necessary but punishing anyone for having the final say regarding their body is bullshit. On Halloween, the majority of women are dressed a specific way and maybe we find solidarity in conforming for the night and that’s why so many women take this one night out of the year as their chance to “dress sexy.” There’s nothing wrong with this as long as it’s their choice and not because of a lack of options.
I Don’t Have Anything to Wear It’s easy to get discouraged when looking for a Halloween costume as a woman. The costume industry is oddly similar to what I find at any sex shop. In fact, I am almost certain they use the same vendors. We are caught in a strange sort of trap, women have few options besides making outfits ourselves (and I would rather go out as a streaker than try to navigate my way around a hot glue gun) but, if we participate then we are only reinforcing that there isn’t a need for an alternative option. On Spirit Halloween’s website, under the heading of Occupations, I discover that I really only have two options: Cop or Nurse. I wish they put the same creative effort into my costume choices as they do the costume names. For example: •Deputy Pat Down •Border (Patrol) Babe •Convict Cutie •Dirty Cop Anita •Ravishing RN •Nurse Heartbreaker Even if you knew nothing else about these costumes, the names give you a good idea of what to expect. Personally, I recommend they save some of their creativity and develop a new category or at least give women a promotion, such as Accomplished Doctor or Deputy Chief of Police.
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Even Party City is getting in on the sexual hype. The same place you go to buy your niece’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle party hats now has a line of corseted TMNT Body Con costumes. I’m all for wearing whatever the fuck you want. I have several costumes that double for role playing and as a broke college student, I appreciate the monetary benefits of such an investment. My whole issue is that it isn’t just an option for those sexually liberated costume shoppers, it’s nearly the only option for anyone searching for a ready-made costume. Not to mention that I sure hope you fit into a Size S, M, or L because there’s rarely an alternative. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems. Pinterest users have found creative ways to build their own costumes, free from marketing ploys. There are many options out there and I truly appreciate it. But upon looking further, it seems that the industry has partially won. Now we have Do it Yourself Costumes such as the DIY Sexy Ewok or Sexy Buzz Lightyear.
The Search for the Sluttiest Girl in the Room I enjoy dressing up, I enjoy being the center of attention on occasion, and sometimes I just want to embrace my sex appeal and go all out. This was particularly true the year I spent partying. By October of that year, I had Ernie Biggs’ set list memorized (I dare you to try to play Don’t Stop Believing before 11 pm) and I was excited for the Halloween Pub Crawl. As amped as I was about the night, I failed to plan a costume. Fortunately for me, very few things are required for a Woman’s Halloween Costume. With my short pleated skirt, sky high heels, tied up blouse, and hair in a bun, I could have sold my costume for $49.99 and labeled it Questionable Business Executive. This was the least amount of clothing I had ever worn in public and it felt awesome. I congratulated myself on feeling empowered. I was liberated and confident and for one night I got to go out as someone else. But even then, in my costume of liberation, when I was clearly in the same type of outfit as everyone else and critically aware, I started to look around to make sure that I wasn’t the sluttiest. I was okay with looking “slutty” as long as I wasn’t the sluttiest girl in the room. Think about that for a minute, I just needed to be better than someone else and I wasn’t alone. The problem is pervasive in our society and no one is immune. I wonder how many women looked at me and deemed me the sluttiest of the two and therefore worse for wear.
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Jessica Schreindl writes in her article “Sexy Halloween Costumes: Why Women Cannot Win, Even on Halloween” that, “For women, Halloween highlights that while we’re being pushed more and more into narrowly-defined over-sexualized expressions of ourselves, we are, at the same time, being shamed for them.” It isn’t enough that the industry limits the options available but then we are punishing those who wish to participate. Is it how other women look that is threatening or is it their confidence? In a world that is constantly telling me that I am not pretty enough, sexy enough, slutty enough, modest enough, it felt great going out there with a big FUCK YOU! Confidence is probably the scariest thing about these costumes and maybe that is why we push each other down so far.
Moving Forward It’s a fine line between critiquing a wildly sexist industry and still respecting people who choose to participate. There are many things is pop culture that frustrate me but that doesn’t mean that I need to put others down. To quote the wonderful movie, Mean Girls, “You have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores, it just makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and whores.” The industry needs to change and offer more options for everyone. However, even if the industry was to completely shift, it would not fix the way women talk to other women, the way men talk to women, or the way we put ourselves down. Let’s all make the conscience choice to stop calling each other sluts and whores. By the first of November, the costumes will be gone and all we will have is a migraine and a slew of Facebook posts to remember it by. However, the Halloween Whore will live on; she will be found in the Basic Bitch or the Desperate NYE Slut. She is created every time a person looks at a woman and makes a base judgment of how many people she has slept with. She is created when we judge each other to make ourselves feel better about our life choices. She is there every time we diminish a woman’s sexual agency by taking away her power. We can only move forward if we stop trying to pinpoint the sluttiest girl in the room. Confidence is control. Confidence in a world that constantly tells you that nothing is enough is power. A woman with power over her own body, is there anything scarier than that? By Rebecca James
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POETRY
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Mothers La Tierra wails, she is Chilean. Sus hijos open their mouths to the earth and comen, comen, comen, to feel her pain, to share her body, once every year. Once, every year, I am in Chile with my parents. Santiago in the summer is business, business for father and for mother. They do not know about La Tierra like I do. They do not know— Vicente, Vicente, Vicente. I am 15. They do not know, he smells of the Lapageria roseas near the city of Puerto Montt. He is soft and brown. He is un hijo de La Tierra. And we make love like virgins.
August 8th, mother’s birthday. She is old and grey. But I am not. I am busy, busy with calloused hands to help Vicente soothe Su Madre. She wails because she is hungry. 5 roosters, 2 pigs, a dog. We dig the holes, deep. We eat the dirt, I weep, I weep,
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The sun, Vicente, the sun! Is high, Vicente. The sun is high. I do not understand, but I bury the animals and eat the dirt, as little birds, little birds, come to nest, I eat, I eat, they’ve come to rest their little feet atop the fence. I eat, I eat. I stick my brown tongue out to them, hoping they will come perch and rest here, little flyers, rest here. By Alexandra Webster
54 oh how wishful was their thinking to keep everyone active just long enough to die-oh how grateful we keep eating all their poison knowledge--teeth pulled while nosebleed, coughing--suck me up dry-my bones creaking--stay with me. while wishing, thinking--slowly sinking through the tension, skull split--gushing-oh how joyous they must be-slopped up brains, sidewalk blinder-oh how generous they have been zombie masses. walking blindly.
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38 (The Grim Slave) I waking into a gasp the ringing is no more fingers together clasped. II a music moves me to stand to walk out into the world I glide across the ground and rubble--as if a friend has taken my hand. and now the plot unfurls, as I glance upon the day-a day I’ve never seen-of purples, greens, and grey… where have I awoke today? III the wind blows from every point but the trees and grass stand still the world is bathed in light but my shadow sleeps today. a light comes down into sight “why do you come for I?” “I come not for you--I am merely deliverance now to whisk you away to a place where you shall always stay. wherever it may be” “does a fire burn there that shall always be unfair?”
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IV deliverance relieved me to the hell-fire and the beasts ripped away my skin only to disappear into the fogged caverns upon that demon’s scream: “welcome to your peril your soul belongs to me you shall be my slave here for the rest of your days you shall be my reaper collect my debts and claims you are now my Angel unbirthed upon the flame.” V my bones did rattle my skin did decay my heart engulfed in fire I know I’m here to stay now a lifeless shell I’ve donned a shadow veil to wear upon my trek and a farmer’s scythe to claim my Devil’s debt end
30 sky is running away the shade disintegrating he is coming today to pick at all your brains he’s walking on your children their hair caught in his teeth he just raped your granny her juices on your lip.
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68 his corpse his living, breathing corpse waits while his soul makes amends. his corpse his bony, broken, reeking corpse lies nearly motionless on the bed. his wife his loony, gluten-allergy-havin-ass wife lights his spliffs. his wife his out-of-touch, drugged-out wife doesn’t even know he’s dying. his son his loving, joyful son is being ripped apart by future’s past. his son his grateful son stands by to say a final goodbye. his eyes his deep, worn eyes sink into his skull, bleak and dull his eyes his empty, soulless eyes are the first thing to go as his corpse his quantitative corpse sinks into the bed, one last time. By Phoenix Lee
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Untitled A pale morning’s skin pressed to glass— “I wonder why the cascade is so unforgiving.” For as pulled from the gray monolithic mammoths come the sprinkling I am pulled irrevocably, impermanent, to fantasy. The sobering dryness of a beach horizon leaves my head sizzling, Burned out under the sun. I’ll look to both shoulders and find naked orgies coming to a close, Trees retreating from growth, and lovers returning to their boats. YOUR somber walk leaving a wake of dispassion, As many stay on the beach you beckon too with a cold cigarette. “Maybe I’m just jealous man, everyone at the beach is perfect, you know; tanned skin, white teeth, I’ve got white skin, tanned teeth.” By Nicholas Nutting
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DROPPIN’ BONES Good night for a walk in the woods ain’t it? Hope I didn’t startle you, comin’ up like that. Don’t you worry none about me, I’m just a walkin’ too. Just a walkin’ we are. Dark as coal tonight ain’t it? A fellow can barely see to walk like this. Likely as not, a fella’ trip on a stick or a rock, maybe a bone. I’ve gone and done that before. You ever find a bone lyin’ in the woods? Just lyin’ there all white and chewed up, like somebody dropped it? Hope it’s all right if I walk with you a while. This here’s a good land, but it can get a might lonely in the dark. Them frogs don’t sound so friendly in the dark. Coyotes yappin’ out in them hills sound a might bigger in the nighttime don’t they? Might be a wild dog with ‘em makin’ them brave, hungry, not afraid of people no more. A lot of things go through your mind, walkin’ in the woods at this time of night. Them things snappin’ twigs out there; maybe they’s just ‘coons. Then again, maybe they’re somethin’ else. Even that sweet smell o’ sassafras roots, in the dark it just means you come close to some undercut in a stream, somethin’ you may just fall into. A fella’ shouldn’t be ashamed to say these woods get a might spooked at night. I could use the company, is all I’m saying, if it’s all the same to you. Be easier to get around these woods with the two of us. These hills and these oaks get mighty confusing at night. A fellow can get to think you got a dogwood to mark the way by the smell of them blossoms and then come across another one. Gets you to second guessin’ the way back. The two of us can blaze a trail. Two folks what know the land can get about in it, even in the dark. My great mammy has herself a yarn about this land. She got one hell of a yarn she said anybody else with ears ought to heed. She’d tell about this night, it’s got a hundred names, she called it the Witching Night. That’s a night of old, bad magic, just as old as this here land. Older’n that bigass oak that got struck by lightnin’ and wouldn’t die. Way older than you. See this night ain’t exactly a fixed time. It moves around what with leap-years and them calendars of the Injuns not jiving with the Christian ones. Maybe that bad magic moves it too. Injuns knew about this night. Cajuns too. Christian folks had them an idea of it too. They all knew ‘bout this night, and to avoid being out in it. It’s a night from a long time ago, when a wicked critter used to speak evil into the world. This one night, that wicked critter comes back an’ reaches out in the dark. None of them religiosities could agree on when this night of bad magic was to happen. It’s 27
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one night one year, and another the next. Could be tonight. Could be tomorrow night. Maybe could have been last night. Nobody can rightly say. You ever walk along and find a bone lyin’ in the woods? It’s just lyin’ there. Nothin’ else around it. No other bones but just this one. You’ll see is from time to time. Some bone, picked clean. Scratches on it. This critter, it can smell you a mile away. That’s how it’ll find ya. You won’t see it comin’ in the dark. Not ‘till it’s got ahold of you. It got itself a body bigger than any bear, lean, full of ribs. Real hungry. Walkin’ on two long legs, must be twelve, fourteen feet tall all told. Walks with them wide, slow steps, coverin’ more ground than a man runnin’ flat out. Arms just as long as them legs. At the end of them arms be fingers, long fingers, maybe too many fingers. Got a head somewhat like a wild boar, or maybe a wolf. Somethin’ like that. Big boar tusks. Antlers on this critter too, all twisted-like. No eyes though. Don’t need ‘em. Say, ain’t we going the wrong way? I feel like we mighta’ passed that rock before. Them big limestones all covered in that dark moss, they get to seem all the same at night. I thought I heard the groundwater drippin’ off the moss a while back. I could be wrong. This critter, got itself all them parts, kind of like them animals, but it ain’t nothin’ like them animals. It ain’t like an animal at all. It ain’t like a man either. Maybe smart like a man or a woman, smarter. This here thing was around long before them animal ever came around. It was huntin’ and smellin’ things that gone and died out before animals come along. It was speakin’ evil a long time before there was folk to hear it. Ain’t got no eyes. Don’t need ‘em. This critter can smell you a mile away. If it smells you on the Witching Night, it’ll come a lookin’ for you. It’ll find you shure as hell and Jesus. I bet you’re glad to have somebody walkin’ with you now ain’t you? I say I feel a might bit more comfortable myself, knowin’ about this critter. You know, once it takes somebody, it never leaves two bones together. Over a hundred miles of woods and hills that creature will just go walkin’ and droppin’ bones here and there until it ain’t got no more bones to drop. Then it gets hungry again. It starts a walkin’ and a sniffing, and reachin’ out with those arms. If it starts in hunting, it’ll find ya. It can smell ya a mile off. It’ll walk along behind ya. You can hear it, just walkin. Them twigs and leaves, movin’ and snapping here and there in the dark. For a while it’ll stay far behind. You would’t see it if you were lookin’ for it. You wouldn’t hear but a leaf or two move. You’ll probably imagine it’s just your own footsteps. It’ll get closer. Walkin’ behind ya. Smellin’ ya. Maybe a few yards behind ya now. You’ll hear it now and then, when it steps on a downed branch or a piece of flint under the
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leaves. But you mightn’t see it. Or maybe you don’t want to look back. You can imagine somethin’s following you. You know from the sound it’s big. Every once in a while you hear somethin’ sniff. It’ll get closer. It’ll be, maybe eight feet back of ya. You can hear it walkin’ now, or maybe it’s just your own feet in them leaves, ‘cause it’s matching your steps. It’s walkin’ when you walk. You can hear it sniffing. Now it’s right up behind ya. You swear it’s there, ‘cause the sound of your feet in them leaves seems like it’s got an echo. It’s close enough to reach out and touch your back. It’s real damn close now. It’s sniffing for you. You can hear it. Best not look at it. Even when you feel it breathin’ on your neck, makin’ them hairs stand up. Makin’ you shiver ‘cause you’re all alone in these dark woods. You can hear it sniffin’ at ya. Best not look at it. Then it’ll reach out with them long, blind arms. It’ll take you into that big dark. It’ll make bones out of ya. That’s what’s said. Ain’t nobody seen it, who ain’t been taken. The bones is all over these here woods. Ain’t no sense in some kind of creature like that is there? But there is. When you is scared, this here critter makes mighty perfect sense. Antlers, and them boar tusks. Face without eyes. Them long arms reachin’ out. Them dark nights and strange sounds in the woods. It can smell you a mile away. It’ll take you into the big dark. When you’re scared and alone in the woods, hell, that critter makes perfect sense. You ever find a bone in the woods? That’s what this critter done. I told ya that didn’t I? Droppin’ bones. Just walkin’ them long strides through the rattlin’ leaves. Walkin’ through the dark, droppin’ them bones in the woods. How I know so much about this here critter? That’s what you’re thinkin’ ain’t it? Smell them oak leaves. Them earthy oak leaves full of salt and earth and nut. Them oak leaves smell good. You can smell ‘em better at night. Naw, you ain’t smellin’ oak leaves. You’re thinking about them long arms, reachin’ in the dark ain’t you? You may as well turn around now. Get a good look at me. Or don’t. It don’t matter now. You smell like you are sweatin,’ kinda nervous. Yeah, you’re a shakin’ like you caught a cold ore somethin’ like that. I can tell you’re shaking. You’re sweating. I smelled you a long way off. I smelled you a mile away. By Silas Misener
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THE ABOUT “My brow was sweaty and by god was it fuckin’ hot. The sun had yet to rise and we’d laid about ten of those yelpin’ bastards to rest before my incident. The worst part of it all was hearing those yelps right before the big boom. Goddamn things could tear your eardrums right out. Couple of the fellas wised up and packaged some earmuffs in their helmets. Somethin’ I should’ve made a note of. My rifle was real heavy that mornin’, as I’d just found my way out of my bed for the first time in a while. Lord you can’t trust food hot or cold round here. I was shittin’, pissin’ and all else these last few days. I couldn’t seem to be getting around to my reports neither. Oh and please forgive my tardiness with the situation but I hope you understand that the things I was shittin’ out you wouldn’t want to be readin’ about. Back to the mainline though. We were cookin’ up real quick and the boys were sweatin’ like fuzzy peaches. Smoke was on the horizon and my trigger finger was loose. A concoction for somethin’ fierce and I knew it. I figured once we iced the last Judas we’d be golden, so I just kept my eyes on the green smokes Bravo Company popped out when they passed the mount earlier that morning. I was the first to hoist myself up to repel down to the darkened jungle. Thumbs up from the whole crew on my situation and my gear and I dropped off the side of the chopper and floated comfortably through the canopy. I felt pretty good until I heard a clang from the boys up top and then I shot through three layers of jungle till I found the floor. I didn’t arise for nearly two minutes. The only thing that truly brought me around was all the shouting and screaming through the walkeez. I checked my head and my heart and assured Private Haze through the walkee that I was okay (his little bitch of a voice would give any of us a start). I was ordered to truck on and find the Judas, ghost him, and report to the top of the adjacent mount for a safe extraction. I nodded, and then base asked if I nodded, I said “yes”. So I trooped out and up through the valley to the precipice between the two peaks. My rifle started growin’ heavier and I could feel my head was hot. A few more hours of exposure and I knew the bump on my head would be the least of my problems. The goddamn natives nearly killed me with the grub and I felt it might finish me off in the heat. I moved quicker to avoid any loss of time. The beat of the jungle was real. My head sizzled and I wasn’t feeling too good. So as the jungle got quieter the vibration in my jacket grew louder, reminding me 31
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Judas was nearby. I was ready to kill. Hot damn I was ready to kill. I listened so intently for his sound. For a ruffle of leaves, for the crunching of grass, for his kin’s faint yelps of joy, but nothing. The canopy bustled at this time during the day but no fuckin’ Judas. Then, just as the sun reached its highest point, the chase began. I was maddened. I heard and saw the poor bastard and bolted him. He leapt up and the rest of his crew eyed me with desperation. I emptied a clip and popped holes in three of em’ outright. The remaining five (including Judas) bleated and fled through the leaves. I hung back and finished the three I’d wounded. Shortly after I scampered after them and clung to the wake they’d left through the jungle. Ten minutes in tracking them I found one of the children knotted up in between two intertwined trees. I didn’t waste any bullets. I only exercised the sharpness of my blade once more. It was quieter that way. Rustling and whimpering echoed in front of me. I moved sleeker after my first four kills. I took to the canopy and glanced down below to find four (not including Judas) running in circles screaming. Here I felt the grip of my dehydration and sickness. Black spots littered my vision. The silhouettes of the enemy… began… to turn into mirrors… I remember feeling like if I were to let go of the branch I had hoisted myself upon I may fall… forever… I couldn’t breathe… “Sergeant?” “S-s-sorry sir. Still a little shookin’ up from the field. So back to the story… uh… I just remember unloading on the… squealing… ugly bastards…” “Sergeant, are you alright?” “…” “…” (An awkward silence followed by the wiping of sweaty fores.) “I clung to the cave walls. I felt the moisture on my hands and stood for a few moments to cup the water into my hands—” “Sergeant what are you talking about? You were just in the jungle what happened directly af—” “I already iced them sir! I killed them cold and clean… Now I was on the Judas goat’s trail. I remember smelling the fertility hormones we covered her in. I knew I was very close. My hands always get so sweaty… when I’m… close to the kill… They screamed so loud… All of them scream so loud…” *sobs* “Sergeant its okay. Just get through this last part and we’ll call it a day. What
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happened in that cave?” *Sniffling* “I packed my gun tight and my radio had no connection in the cave. I thought about calling base ahead of time but felt I needed to finish up quicker.” “Sure.” “So I clicked on my light and… right there SHE was… No matter how many times I raised my gun… I just couldn’t… *sobs*” *Colonel laughs* “What the fuck are you laughing about?!” “Oh um nothing…! *Colonel explodes into laughter*” (Men watching through glass erupt in laughter as the Sergeant sobs even heavier.) “I mean come on man! It’s a fucking goat! Jesus Christ its not like you’re mowing down children *laughs*. I mean, I would have given you the benefit of the doubt on that one *said while smirking through the glass followed by a long and hard sniff and lip pursing*. But a goat! A fucking annoying, bitching, ugly goddamn goat *sarcasm*.” “Hey! I did everything I had to out there. But goddamn it I won’t kill another harmless… goat… *sobs loudly*…” (Awkward and quiet pause.) “Well alright. If you’re going to be a baby about the whole thing I don’t see a point in asking you any more questions about ‘Judas Operation’.” “Thank y—“ “However, I do need to know where you saw Judas last, and I need your signature that everything you said during our little discussion was true… Okay?” “… Judas was last at the coordinates 57389-44. I swear that’s all I know. I never saw her leave and nothing else happened I swear *tears beginning to gather*.” “Alright. That’s fine and that will do. But Sergeant Proctor I am going to need your signature.” “You have all witnessed it- it is enough *looking to the glass*.” “Just sign the damn thing. They we can all go home. Okay?” “ You have all witnessed it; what more is needed?” “Are you kidding? You’ll sign your name or it ain’t no confession, Proctor!”
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(Sergeant Proctor angrily signs the paper and hands it over. The Colonel only holds it momentarily as Proctor snatches it back.) “Proc—” “No, no. I signed it, and you have seen me. It’s done! You don’t need this.” “I need a legal document s—” “I have three children—how may I teach them to walk like men in the world, and I sold my friends?” “Well I hardly think they’re friends, they’re goats for Christ’s sa—” “Your word is good enough. Say Proctor broke and wept like a woman; say what you will, but my name cannot—” “It’s the same! If I report it or you sign it.” (Tensions beginning to mount.) “It is not the same! Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Beca—” “Oh god, get him out of here! The goats have gotten to him.” (Proctor screaming shreds the document. Three agents burst through the door ceasing Proctor as he screams and cries.) “For now I do think I see some shred of goodness in Sergeant Proctor! Not enough to weave a ban—” “Save it Proctor. Well I guess you’ll be scrubbing toilets for a few months. You happy?” *Arbitrary screaming and crying from Proctor as he flails shaking his head from side to side* “Take him away.” (The scene dims and the point of view floats through the glass in the interrogation room revealing two characters standing by.) “You’ve gotta speak some sense into him man. You know how much of a germaphobe Proctor is. He’ll piss and moan about the whole thing. Then he’ll ask one of us to do it. We’ll say no. He’ll piss and moan some more. Then we’ll have to straighten him out again like we had to at boot camp. And I don’t think
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hitting him with a bar of soap inside a sock is really going to teach him much. He’s a spry little fuck… It’s just a whole process I don’t want to deal with… So please go talk to him… Please?” “…” “…” “He has his goodness now. God forbid I take it from him…” “……………………………………………………………… What?” Dedicated to all the goats that lost their lives during the occupation of Project Isabela on the Galapagos Islands. By Nicholas Nutting
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