The Illegible Scribbles of a Formless Scribbler

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Paul is works for Assorted Medical Solutions. The door to the future health of society. Paul was born with auto-immune system disorder, to which he creates his own formula to cure himself from this dreadful disease. Every medication, whether legal or illegal has its pros and cons, most of the time the cons outweigh the pros. When creating the cure for his auto-immune system disorder, which is a pro, doesn't outweigh the con of having your personality traits of anger and hate condensed into the voice of a ravenous raccoon that tells you to cure society by killing off ones deemed as unacceptable to breathe. After being cured from ever acquiring a mortal physical sickness, Paul sees himself as a perfect man, and his duty and purpose in life is to cure society by creating medicinal poisons which he utilizes to "cure" his "patients." He does this by taking on jobs of servitude by night, just to mesh himself in the term "people."

Submitted: August 14, 2007

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Submitted: August 14, 2007

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The Illegible Scribbles of a Formless Scribbler. © Abel Vera /22.07.07/

Oh hello. Let me tell you about how I assembled my suicide to look like murder.

It has been told to me by one of my college professors that everyone in the world is just trying to write their life in some way or another. If you aren’t remembered, then you were never published and are as good as all those old friends you don’t remember. Worthless. Professor Kline told me to take note of people and not to put myself in that term or any other word associated with a crowd of people. This was after I was diagnosed with tinnitus, the disease where the recipient hears sounds that no one else can hear, often rings, buzzes and sometimes, complex sounds such as winds and whispers. This is before the raccoon told me I had to kill myself for the curing of society, but to do so in a way so as to make it look like my boss kills me. This is after me being born with a form of autoimmune system disorder that ruins my life. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom. The form of autoimmune system disorder that I possess is one where at random times in my life, especially during high stress and/ or depression, my immune system starts to attack certain-random tissues in my body. The only treatment is one where emphasis is put on curing symptoms caused by the disorder rather than fixing the underlying problem: my immune system. So say for example, my pancreas falls victim to my immune system and the hormone that produces insulin is no longer being produced because God instilled in my body, genetics that are set to destroy me. The only treatment to the lack of this insulin-producing hormone is to insert it to return the insulin back to my body. This process treatment only restores function to the pancreas and leaves the two-faced army of my immune system at large to attack again or else where. All I would be able to do is live and breathe in suspicion of my body, in wonder of when my it would turn on me. But this is no way to neither live nor exist. I fixed that problem; my body no longer attacks me. I scribbled out my own formula and prescription to supercharge my immune system to keep my body from not fighting itself by evolving and resisting anything foreign. I no longer get sick. I am immune to cancer, AIDS, tuberculosis and the common cold. This formula scribble only works for my body because the nature of this medication is different. If you were to perfect each person on earth, since of diversity, it will have to be scribbled individually for each individual. What cures one person can kill another one. There is no one-size-fits-all for this type of scribble I drew up. All out of line. Isn’t that the way it was supposed to be? Life without pain? Not have to be in wonder of when your unknown friend your immune system is going to lead an attack to you. If evolution is real, why haven’t we evolved to resist cancer, AIDS, tuberculosis and the common cold? Is this why we have health care, because there is no evolution and no God? Our bodies seem to evolve to accept these diseases rather than resist them. What century are we in? Where is fate? Can I make an appointment with my primary care physician God? Woe to me. It’s either Him, or my body evolved to kill myself for some reason, which doesn’t seem logical, but is possible. So then what if natural selection chooses I shouldn’t be alive, my body begins to evolve into death, which evenly balances with evolution. What a way to pass my days. Medicines, in a general term, serve a general purpose. They do what we design them to do. We label them and classify them. Medicines are all metrical nameless appellations of themselves. What does that mean? It means no two Advil’s are the same. For example, if I buy a bottle of any sort of analgesic pain relief, and you take a pill out of the bottle, and I take a pill out of the same bottle and we both take them at the same time for a headache, the agents in the pill respond differently in each and every body and all of its members. The effects it has on me will not be parallel to the ones going on inside of you. This is what classifies us humans as individuals. Medications always have positives and negatives. A good portion of the time, those negatives outweigh the positives, but if the designed antidotal-poison is marketable, it jumps into the consumer market, the pharmaceutical market and don’t forget the most important market of all, the stock market. I work for Assorted Medical Solutions. My company discovers, develops, manufactures and markets a broad range of medications to the pharmaceutical environment to improve the health of society. Our mission statement states: we will become the world’s most valued company to patients, customers, colleagues, investors, business partners, and the communities where we work and live. This is why I took measure into my hands to cure the ones in society that I deemed unacceptable for breath. The people whom I felt as necessary to have direct access to my remedies. My company, or better yet, the investors company is imperfect and is all about profit. My paycheck comes from blood money. This is what the raccoon told me to do, he told me to exploit and destroy Assorted Medical Solutions. He said he was the victim of some pharmaceutical drug created by the veterinarian Himself. He said I was a victim, and if I am a victim, is not the one inflicting this title on me my enemy? Are we all products of drugs and chemicals rather than just ourselves? I remember when I was working at Brown Apron Coffee House during my college years, I thought of what Professor Kline said as I was staring out the window into the world I hated wearing a brown apron of slavery. He told me, “Paul, the only way for any one of us to live and stay alive rather than just exist is to stay formless. Never gain any true form; only in form is when human vulnerabilities will fill your soul.” I knew right away what he meant, there was no speculating and interpreting. These words of a bearded face are all I recollect socially from college. At that moment in my nickel-and-dimed life I decided to begin to write my life on the nearest object available for writing, a pastry bag. Pastry bags in this country only serve a temporary use. They add to someone else’s satisfaction and do not last in the physical world very long. Pastry bags add to the idealization that we live in a progressed, well structured and stable world, where the only imbalances existing are those in others. How if a pastry bag fails to do its job, it can ruin a personas day by releasing its contents to the floor. But cars, money, material assets and dreams are the of the same chemical reaction pastry bags come from. All I remember writing was my full name in lower case letters and the word panacea. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom. If I were Superman I would stand at the top of the tallest buildings in major cities just to observe a people on a personal basis and their contribution to the space they are taking up in this world. Just sit up at the top of the building and watch all the medication manipulations taking place in every biological organism, manipulating their biological systems to create the image everyone else sees. A façade. We live in a society of nothing more than fronts. Take a time out of your insignificant life to speculate on the idea that all the medications we take and chemicals we consume just manipulate and cause biological disarray in our bodies. We were originally hollow. That is why I put all those people to the curable death. After I cured all of my fallacies it was my duty to cure society of its insignificants, and who better to do so than the man who is perfect. The man who is unable to attain disease and sickness, is that not perfection? A transcend from a malfunctioned immune system to one that is unbeatable. Just like how man went from Adam to Christ. An evolution of perfection. The day before I finished the manufacturing of my cure, I had a dream that I was in complete ataraxy, alive in a land free of chances and human manipulations, but I don’t think it was a dream, it was a philosophy. Maybe it was just the forming of chemical formulations in my body telling me what I could’ve been, some peaceful biological being freed from the complexities of technology that digresses society. I lived my life to ultimately turn it into a fiasco. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.

The set scene is Little Mellows Pizzeria. The area code is 415. The zip code is 94133. The green sign says, welcome to San Francisco California. Population- 744,041 minus you. I work at Mellows Pizzeria in, a pizza shop in the North Beach district of this city. Assorted Medical Solutions is situated in Oakland California. Right over the bridge. I still work there. No body I know in my life really knows me. They may think this, but if they were to read my CAT scan report, they still wouldn’t know me. If they were to go through a photo album of my life, they still wouldn’t know me. My life is one big photograph of my planned murder suicide. This is the definition of the word fiasco. By looking at the picture, you would assume that my boss killed me, rather than me being responsible for the whole set up. If you were to see a picture of my death, you wouldn’t know what actually went on. And you still wouldn’t know me. This pizzeria has brown stools and brown, cheap, slick surface seating booths. The tables are dirty with cheese and pepper left over from a wet white spotted rag. The first thing you do as a human primate as you sit in this habitat is put your hands on the supposed clean surface, but you feel the crumbs left over from the previous monkey. This is where you sit and I observe you from the back rectangular portrait in the wall with a white hat on, a tomato sauce stained white polo shirt, green apron, tomato sauce stained pants and greased up black shoes one size too big for me. My observations determine whether you are worthy enough to live in our healthy product of society. The Assorted Medical Solutions society. My society. Contra mundum; against the world. As you sit waiting glancing every so often into this picture I call my world, I take note of your quick superficial characteristics, your manner when you paid, your interactions with your environment and your attitude as you wait. I may test your patience and burn the pizza the first time to get more of a reaction out of you to determine who you are. Impatient characteristics result in a medication I insert in your food that will handicap you in a physical way, so as to teach you patience. The damage done is permanent unless Assorted Medical Solutions creates otherwise. But I am Assorted Medical Solutions. At work I am referred to as “He is.” When people in my division make any reference to any new type of drug or the company, they make a reference to me because of the hours and commitment I put in. Because of my ability to manipulate the chemicals and ailments I work with to get the best scribble of a formula that works. I am Assorted Medical Solutions. I am your death. I am your Grim Reaper. I am your savior. I am your cure. So now that you have the set scene set up in your head, lets set up a character. Imagine it is a windy day, with the sun shining through the streets of the city. A short round man with eyes seeing too far out of his out of his head, fat round eyes that resemble him, fat round fingers and most likely a fat round penis, walks in with a demanding attitude. I classify this man as the type of customer who is quick to show his authority over you by demanding action and wanting things to work because they should always work for them. One of the boys I work with is named Julio. Julio has slicked forward black hair and walks quite slower now then before I met him. When I first started working with him, he told me how he disliked his father, but he put it in more graphic of words. He did not understand his father wanted him to change his association and to put his skills to school rather than just gang banging with his friends. Early on, I took a quick note on how Julio had no appreciation for life, family or other human beings who care about him. I am not one who has had, has or will have such a car for Julio. I keep all my patient relationships business only. So I planned to make him care. No, Julio isn’t dying, but he has pancreatitis, which is an inflammation of the pancreas. The suffix –itis means inflammation. Julio trusts me with all of his stories, or is it that he trusts any listening ear that isn’t part of his family? I gave Julio pancreatitis. I inserted a liquid chemical reaction I dropped into one of the drinks he was having with me after we got off one Friday night as we were leaning against the back alley wall of dark filth. The only thing is nobody knows about the liquid disintegrating pill I dropped in. No body knows the reason Julio has been feeling ill lately is due to the inflammation of the pancreas in order to make him more dependent on his father’s care. I want Julio to appreciate or die. His father is an immigrant worker who cleans offices in one of the cities numerous skyscrapers. Changing trash bags. Vacuuming the carpet with the art of shagging in V shapes to give it that clean look. This is Julio’s father Hector. This is the definition of his existence, because if your office isn’t clean the next morning you come in, you remember the nameless Hector, and how nothing of him is important to you other than his submission to do the job.

Continuing with this authoritative customer who walks in, the fat ass snaps his fingers to Julio who is moving slow to the result of digestive enzymes leaking into the pancreas and starting to digest it. This sets up inflammation, which initiates the scarring process to begin to distort the pancreas and create a cycle of further attack of inflammation. If it goes untreated, the pancreas fails to produce digestive enzymes to permit proper digestion of food. This leads to weight loss and bodily sickness that drains energy. If the cycles continue within, the failure of the pancreas to produce insulin will lead to a beautiful development of diabetes. This is Julio after he met me. This is Julio before he encountered this authoritative customer whom I deemed as unacceptable to breathe in society. This customers name was Mike. I know this because that’s what his blue-collar shirt with his factory badge on it read. Mike the future deceased. Mike the reason why I quit my job at the pizzeria. “Hey boy, get me a glass of water!” snapped Mike the fat. I thought to myself, “His name isn’t boy, my patients name is Julio.” It was already written in stone as I prepared his order. An X-tra large Deceased. The other pizza makers didn’t notice what I meshed in with Mike’s personal pizza. Grinded and baked. Smashed and sprinkeled. I don’t get off by doing this. It is my duty. It is my obedience to the raccoon. Don’t judge what you do not understand. Growing up as a misunderstood child, I was always one who wasn’t capable to form healthy lasting relationships with other people, I stayed within my own written language and code the evolutionary processes created in my mind. I don’t know how to explain this, because it was always explained to me that I wrote in scribbles and chicken scratches when I first was able to grasp a pencil. I don’t know what caused this interference in my ability to learn written language first; maybe it was I was always drawing in imagination as I grew. I don’t know. I have my own developed written language on paper that no one else can understand or convert into words other than myself. This skill I apply to my work, writing out chemical formulas and observations on medicines. Just scribbles without form from a human without true shape. I’m just a skid mark on the floor made by angels who will never return. My life means nothing to anybody. I cured Mike. Within a matter of twenty minutes, the formula I named as Fatamine, a new type of poison incomparable to regular poison, cyanide or anything else that creates a messy or traceable death. Fatamine acts in quick justice as it enters into the consumer’s body enabling it to see every misdeed and enzyme that controls him. In theory, Fatamine should take about 15 minutes to completely cease breaths of a soul and leave them dead as they exhaled all their life away in an unknowingly silence. Oxygen stops permeating the cell walls and nerve conductivity declines. As Mike’s eyes bulged out as he hit the pizza in front of him, knocking over his healthy black soda, he fell out of his seat sweeping crumbs down with him. This was Mike’s honorable death I set up for him. Society is one step closer to perfection. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom. Our lives are defined by the relationships we form, not by the assets, materials or accomplishments we achieve and leave behind. The relationships your form keeps your memory alive for the future, either good or bad ones. I have no relationships formed, because every time I dive into the social ocean, I fail. I am in my ark, sorting out and drowning this ocean of unworthy people. What makes anyone so deserving? Perfection is the key. Noah and Moses were perfect in their own ways. Perfect imperfection.

It has been nine months since fat amine Mike was coffined; I have successfully killed 20 people in a matter of 9 months with no trace other than unknown. I create pharmaceutical cures rather than traceable murders. The drug companies are the real murderers. What separates them from paid assassins is that they have a place in the stock market. Can you hear the echo of pharmaceutical variant alterations? What does that mean? Look it up for yourself. Freewill is the most beautiful word in the English language. It’s resonate utterance reverberates your lungs. It’s what makes it possible for me to do whatever I want. It’s the downfall of God Himself, or is it the downfall of me? Being in full control of my life means my life has now become meaningless. Are we all actors? Where is my identity? Where is my definition? Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.

I now work for A Koffie’s Bakery on Santana Row where the thin sliced titanium letters spell it out for you on every entrance into California’s replica of the idealistic places the ignorant want to go to, but never will achieve anything other than fake external exteriors housing hollow interiors. This is the real Santana Row, not one you see in online pictures and in San Jose Magazine. If you’re rich enough to afford the multi million dollar condominiums, this is where you would go to die a young bachelor. I work at a coffee shop on the street; near expensive restaurants I don’t even know the names of, because I classify them by the workers in the back, the actors in the front and the prices. I’m not like you. I still work at Assorted Medical Solutions Monday through Friday in the day. People there no longer refer to me as the company because they cannot see the effort I am putting into medical research by creating cures that have no antidotes to them other than the destruction of the pharmaceutical companies. They cannot see this, but they soon will see a torched habitat of drugs. Drug companies are drugging not individuals, but shaping the biological beings that create this world, for the term individuals no longer exist. I am the last fading individual. I’m here at this coffee shop to cure people. I enjoy the setting of one of the most upscale shopping centers California has to offer, with a wide arranging variety of wealth amongst the people here. You know, the ones with the real money are up in their condominiums not even looking down into the pointless noises of the street. Lamborghinis and Ferrari’s roll through here do so just to get attention from people who can only dream of acquiring such machinations of supposed great societies obvious debility. As I was walking one evening on my first week to my new job, I noticed a man with his blinds open sitting in a chair looking out his window, but not down on us, the mixture of people, but into his reflection of the nighttime glass, with the help of the manipulations the window had on his reflecting image. Almost making him feel invisible. I stared through the transparent glares up into him from the street. I needed a better view, so I entered into the hotel I was I front of and mingled my way through the ones wealthy enough to stay here, not meaning that with my salary at Assorted Medical Solutions that I also couldn’t stay here, I mingled through the ones who devoted their lives to riches or some other pointless prosperous pursuit. This is why I am alive. This is the definition of my life. My breaths are measured to this. This is my relationship with the outside world. I have no relationship with the outside world. After taking two elevators to get to the roof-patio that was eye level with the man sitting in luxurious disarray I didn’t see a man, I saw an artist. His tie was loosened; his shirt was shuffled and half un-tucked. He looked so beautiful sitting there in sorrowful silence. My definition of art. The sad faced clown. The truth. Glaring into the glass I noticed familiarity in this man’s face and shape. Something smelled familiar, as I felt a quick sensation of jamais vu, then realized he was one of my patients. I CURED him. But I did that last week. How could it be? His body adapted quick to fight the antidote I set for him. I remember this beautiful prick now. He came to the coffee shop around lunchtime with some other uptight person who was very polite. This prick wasn’t. He gave no recognition to any class or material lower than him on the status of our exterior garments and titles. If everyone in Santana Row were stripped of their clothes and jewelries, you would find that everybody has the same essential concept in shape and design. So my plan was to help him understand this. At the time I was thinking, “Ok Mr. Rolex, lets hope it can tell you the time of your death. Lets hope your fast sports car can tell you the speed at which you will die.” I gave my patient prick a hyper auto-immune disorder that I personally manufactured into a disease that acts in a few days time to 2-3 weeks time to completely rid the patient of his life. It took me a while to compile the scribbles and formulas to create this one. From the cure I used to cure myself of my auto-immune system disorder, I reversed it at a hyper rate to direct the patients immune system to randomly fire attacks against vital parts of his bodies life-sustaining organs. His face was so beautiful, there with his mouth open, gazing in wonder at his existence in that dark brown low cut armchair with the foot rest off to the side so he could stretch his feet out. He sat loose and is posture was shoulders out with a drink in his right hand. A glass mirror in a brown color-matching frame as a compliment to the colors of the room was directly behind him reflecting the glare of the window and my distant face. I began wondering if he was dead already, or would I be given the chance to witness it in a front row seat to observe a modern day miracle. I am Noah and you are reading about my ark. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.

I caught sight of the glittering of his Rolex by the lights and cold reflecting mirror in there. He next dropped his drink. Such art death is. Such an un-cleanable mess it makes. I can’t remember how long I was there formulating on this frameless film, but it didn’t take me long to notice the gash in his Rolex wrist from an incision he must’ve made himself. He died in an Alfani suit, Rolex watch, millions of dollars in investments and assets, a multimillion-dollar company, a gold digging girlfriend and left behind parents and siblings he never talked to anymore. I was watching myself die. I saw myself dead. I wanted to be this man. This is what I wanted, to die in complete wealth to prove to the world the true value of money and materials. I just want to prove our equality. I want to die and have the world tune in to Youtube.com or CNN to get a live feed. This nameless man just ruined it for himself by committing self kill. He will not be considered a martyr nor remembered nor cared about. Just some Corpse That Had It All is how the newspapers will headline this artistic scene. I am not sure what killed him, or what drove him to suicide, but I read in the papers that he was diagnosed with throat cancer and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease that day. COPD involves constriction of ones airways making breathing a dreadful chore. It led my patient to ease the pain with cold hard liquor and an irreversible fatal opening to the carpus. An analgesic incision to his wrist. The only antidote to my cures is suicide. I try to formulate and create my medicines to be in a position over you to where by the time you realize anything is wrong with your body, it’s too late to say goodbye to anything or anyone. An unexpected car crash. Under steer of your life. Before I got my motorcycle, people whom had little effect on my actions tried to forewarn me of the dangers, I reasoned, if I fell at speeds of 150mph plus, which was my intention for getting a bike, it would be death on impact, so there is nothing to worry about. I just want to save peoples lives. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.

What is the human formula? Did God just scribble us out, or are those hard-to-believe theories of evolution take truth? If you were to ask a doctor about how many people he has helped and saved in his lifetime, he would answer, “not enough.” I did not save enough lives in order to have an impact on the society of the world, but enough to satisfy the raccoon. The raccoon is this shadow in my head that follows me in daylight to help me decipher whom is worthy to live and who isn’t. He is a recent add on to my mind. Shortly after becoming perfect, he came out of my scribbles and through my write hand to tell me that all great perfect men have some sort of guidance to guide them to the path of salvation. He said he was sent to guide me. Adam had the serpent, Moses had the burning bush, Jesus had God and I had the raccoon that has never appeared to me in form, but in shadowy context of his words, thoughts and formulations of the world. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.

This is how I got to my death. Everyone I have ever worked for in servitude work that might recognize my face in the papers I exterminated from the canvas my society is painted on. I always used fake names, identities, social security numbers and disguises when I was working in servitude, monkey systematic work. I am now in my natural habitat with my boss’s blood going cold on the hard, white tiled floor. Glistening red is a color more beautiful than any color you can custom paint your car with. His blood makes a good red acrylic to the painting of this development floor. Development for truth and exposure. This is my production floor. I am the only performer in this show I am working on and it will be one of my last performances. I no longer will have the ability to get into consume and act out a character and cure society. My show is done and so are all of my acts. This is the final ending. This is the longed for finale. May the clouds of heaven make room for me as I begin to make my ascent. Woe to the heavens. The raccoon guided me after I shot my Boss Rick Crasswaler in the temporal lobe of the brain. It doesn’t matter on my forensic skills at all to make this look like murder. This shit is going to burn, shatter the windows and melt the interiors of my soul and this floor. Woe to society after I die. Who will continue the cure? I adopted no disciples and left no works other than my transliterated writings and notes no one else can translate. My scribbles are what others referred to them my entire life. Maybe one day they will create a gospel out of the ones I have hidden all over the city and have buried in parks. Somebody will find them, and be able to crack the code by the translation that I left in order that a new form of society can form after this explosion. They will soon no longer follow BC or CE, they will follow PE for Paul Existed. BPE for Before Paul Existed. Woe to those who will be deemed as a contamination to the future of perfect imperfect society. Here I am, painting the future scene of my planned death with a blood-fiery gloss. Disarray decaying of my life, an exposure to my perfect imperfect soul. Humbled martyrdom.


© Copyright 2020 Abel Vera. All rights reserved.

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