The First Two Murders of a President
Nevermore, the tune of Escher and parallel lines crossed his eyes. The painting blinked. The writer is torn between these initial thoughts. He knew there was religion,
if nothing else. Who is this man to destroy humanity?
Norman Shins lived in a large bland city known as Festin. It was tall and strong and grey with stunning skyscrapers made of glass but a thick fog that held them from
those on the streets below. He was a bookkeeper and wanted to make an honest living. His fame came from his lies that told of two friends that really had their say.
He wrote one note that stated boldly:
“They knew of only one man who stayed in a form of madness that seemed out of place in an otherwise matriarchal household. “
This was odd in Festin, and odd for Norman Shins. He had a tendency to write aimless letters with bad grammar and more small marks from tears than of punctuation. In
the factory he worked, the main platforms were brown, small rectangular rows and columns he needed to fill with minute details of the past days work. This meant he stayed up late pushing paper
nearly every night.
This would have been lonely to some but he had a colleague who felt forced to keep him company in the same small cubicle. This action was simply because the boss
needed to instill fear and power for respect. He had nothing that truly bothered him besides the small gap between the blades of the forks and he told that to Norman every night at dinner.
It was easier to believe in that sort of thing than tear the tormenting darkness in the world away from his inner light. It helped keep him centered.
Norman sometimes thought aloud that he was the only fair bookkeeper in this land. He may have thought he were the only fair person. Their leaders and the common folk
held strange regard for those who abused their power and set this norm. It started as fear, Norman figured, but became a triumph of culture to demand people did one’s bidding.
But Norman just kept books. His boss would command to make sense of things on threat that he would simply die. It was he or his staff, in the end, as Norman and his
cubicle partner Harold needed this position to keep their mortal shell.
Neither had family to care for. That seemed for the best because it was how their boss had raised them. No one had a family in this land. The eerie Guards would take
all children to the nearest orphanage as soon as they were born. It was considered a sin to avoid telling a superior that you were expecting a birth.
It was argued that this sped the process of growing.
Studies backed by the Main Office of Ready Birth in Festin suggested that orphaned children left home and became self sufficient much quicker than those children
coming from more affluent backgrounds. Norman was sure that some simply died though the official numbers that were available to the public stated clearly that overbearing parents often ceased the
development of their otherwise stable and capable children.
Norman turned one night to his only true friend and said, “Harold, we have no mortal shell outside this office. You sleep two blocks away and I sleep one block away.
Is this what life is?”
Harold refused to answer and they did not speak the rest of the night, passing even at the end of the night when Norman waved as they took their leave and headed in
opposite directions from the front gate outside the building and into a hazy morning light.
So the next night Norman asked the same question.
Still Harold just looked at his books. Silently and simultaneously they wondered and subliminally left the office without missing a pen stroke. By some sort of luck,
or perhaps just fate, the papers moved away and they found a small grey book.
This book appeared old, as the inside cover claimed it was written in 2009. Harold read the title to Norman in a calm yet nervous manner, trying to hide his glee and
shaking hands. The title was bold and black on a simple matte white background. It was gritty to the touch. A symbol neither man knew was in the center, marking a brief red outline that played
tricks with their eyes.
“So You Say You’ve Committed Genocide – A Handbook For Going to Hell.”
The book read like this:
I walked through the dense forest on a beaten path. The moss on either side was hanging about three inches from the dirt so we stepped through to find the lake.
The tall evergreen trees surrounding us were all a foot in diameter and the underbrush was thick with green bushes. And we saw a small yellow flower growing through
the moss covering a trunk. So I reached down to my belt and pulled a flask of water which she drew to her lips.
She asked me to fill out a form.
What do we know about Whitey the Crime?
What is his/her name?
Favorite breakfast food.
Those small apple cakes you can buy at the store.
Where does he/she live?
She lives about 6 blocks from the bay, in a small cottage with a cement garden. It has been over grown for years and the lush tree hanging over her
circular rock garden in falling towards the grass.
Open his/her fridge and list what you see and smell.
Ice and mist. The white metallic box opens from the top.
Look under his/her bed and list what is there.
Dust, wood flooring and paneling that is darkened red.
Open his/her medicine cabinet and list what is there. Of course you would never do this in real life, would you?
Placebos of various shapes in marked prescription bottles.
What books and magazines does he/she read?
These old dusty books, with black covers and faded letters. She likes them with rounded edges.
What lie does she/he tell about self?
That she deserves this.
What secret does she/he hold?
A gem, red with a cross on the back. She keeps it in a cigar box in a desk in her basement.
What is her/his greatest desire or ambition?
To see paradise.
What gets in the way of achieving this?
What does s/he like to do while alone?
Read, write, play her small brown piano.
How does s/he move? ie. degree of tension.
She is calm with no need for disguises. She is in denial of her self so she remains very respectful of her superiors.
So make up your own question and answer it.
What does she do for a living?
Although we know more that this about Whitey the Crime a simple silent moment that one has alone with or without a reflective surface can send numerous thoughts
towards a sovereign people who refuse to believe what they are told.
This is an unintentional dissonance.
The idea that Whitey the Crime’s beliefs are better than someone who disagrees should be read as an ironic statement about the balance of the universe. Everything
seems to have two schools of thought, those with it and those against it.
The wise understand that the equilibrium of these meetings is apparent in every day life. Repression causes violent outbursts in the most psychological sense. Perhaps
this idea embarrasses us. But repressed memories of our past do come to our minds from time to time. These embarrassing secrets challenge our code of behavior, as it seems we wish we could be
altruistic in our convictions. Dr. Phil taught me that, amongst other things.
Due to understood and misunderstood circumstances, or perhaps the content of my early writing I was told I was under the influence of the Devil. In my most altruistic
tone, perhaps to explain that I didn’t feel I was, I told a youth Pastor a rude statement of awkward disagreement.
I feel by now he was trying to save my soul, as people do. For a number of reasons, including this rude statement and the form of poetry that I was writing, my claims
of reincarnation, philosophical questions other art that were deemed notably out of place, stupid, insane, wrong and preachy.
I eventually felt the need to leave and I grew up.
It is important to note that 50% of people believe that George Bush Jr. was the coming of the anti-Christ and in the news today
one can easily find as much material stating that Barak Obama is.
The truth seems silly, as the same proof that worried me of Bush’s numerology is used to undermine our new president.
I am, by the way, entirely aware of the implied grandeur in that prior statement. It was a joke.
I woke up this morning feeling like it was a new day.
No order in chaos, no preaching but I pray.
Funny lines say time stands still for her.
In my dream she held my hand. We walked down a street staring in to each other’s familiar eyes. I knew her. I wish I could have actually said something to her but
these are of course,
As they are just dreams
And the moon fell from the sky.
Smoke rings and chaos ensued.
I ran down a deserted street in some post-apocalyptic New York City that seemed to be trapped in panic and struggle. Dust and tension were hanging in the air and I was
yet to learn that people were trapped on the island of Manhattan, yet there I stood. I was with my wife.
And for this very reason I ran down the street to find her. We walked down the road and I recall an old man in ragged clothes lying on his side facing us from the
gutter. He looked at me with all the love in the world in his eyes. I thought about this later. I have been suffering from writer’s block for about a week now. (I wrote) I have lost the skills to
play the guitar.
But I am dreaming more than I ever have before in my life.
Documentary epics. Drawn out, clear, one hundred-day dreams and I rise awake an hour after slipping into rest. I am learning that some things cannot be
True man laughed at him and the others watched his horrid dreams with token, clear, still nights. But that was just fine. His family had been living in Houston, Texas for a while now.
The name she spoke was one that reminded her of the man she lived with in a false castle in a deep before confederation south. She had always been spiritual. That’s what he loved about her, and it
didn’t need to be a statement. It just needed to face these opening words. He found when he share these words she would at least get angry. When he did not she sat silently and drank tea.
Their engagement was considered their modern dilemma; a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. They will take lives from those who
spoke lively of certain situations. He knew she did not understand. That was what he liked most about her.
And for those reasons specifically our hero had never wanted to kill in his life.
So the woman decides it is best to walk to her sisters to talk. It was a lively afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by trees. Big poplars lined her stone tile walkway and they always shook
in the wind at this time of year. Otherwise things were soft and calm house around the house that day.
The fourteen-year-old girl who answered the door was excited and shouted, “Aunty Alice, is Richard here?”
“No,” Alice replied, “I need to talk to your mother.”
She was let in the house and her sister came to the corner of the door. They greeted each other politely.
The woman stands in front of white lights. Her forward leg is bend at the knee and high in the air in front of a flashing behind her. The surrounding yard reflects her motions with long narrow
shadows the people in the doorway.
She smiles, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle down.” The niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.
“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says. Alice’s sister used to call her Stanly often. It came from a game that they would play together. It was one that needed those silly hats and cardboard boxes. She
kept it secret until later but began to call her younger sister by that at sixteen. It was just what she needed.
Alice’s sister had stopped using that name again by eighteen because she got into the club scene. This was the first time in 20 years that she made that snide reference. It made her smile.
“It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces that meet men of former glory,” Aunt Alice began, “If men of words and men of action are taken in distinct
directions, and men of face are sent for glory than the only man of face that exists is some one true God. The one that the Gods all claim is their God. He was lying to us because the one that
hides so far behind a tree that you could only see layers. These are of the beings followers but they guard you as they show you that the creator is behind them. And you know to trust these men.
But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, sister. That one. Richard was wrong.”
The sister listened politely and asked Alice inside. Alice politely declined. She wished her family a good night, making the best smile she could and walked down the shaded boulevard.
The road was beginning to face the end of summer now. There was only one word to feed that hymn. And she thought of another benefit to bureaucracy. Commoners appreciate the security in one million
people between you and the man you made the law.
If you think you are in the dark now
Taking a lot about the town
You gave it all away just gone
And how you lost it all move on
Fix yourself make it up now
As you move on in to dust I’ve found
Think about what you want
And all you really put up with
So think, dream
To be clear that is all
Request the unintelligible
Believe to keep faith and dream
This place is too far inside you
That cave with dark silence
The part underwater
With a chest
With a lock
In the dark silence
And remember the faith you had
When it all fell back I hate to live
Its great without the help of you
You are all I need
You are all I want
However you are
Perfectly there amidst the confusion I still see
Scared and far away like that one day first
Which was close
All I wanted is to be with you
So perfect so nameless
And all it was clear that you would kill me
When ready or perfect you are ugly
But so perfect and clear you can see
If you are perfectly placed not displayed
In a name the word name
As you had requested to keep the space
So please be patient with mine
As you have taken the time
To ask this in a kind tone
So I act so selfishly taken aback
And the tree taps lightly on the window
The way it was were these little changes
The way things are staying the same
When I left you is just a shame
If I could have been like that
The way life was or the way one is
The dichotomy is innate to our language
I hate my self-destructive nature
Breaking in they crash all over me
With the way the seconds tick
I fucking up the preamp
Near where the mountains
Try to crash into the sea
Terms that worry and minds that settle if
The men walk silent on checkerboard floors
When opening to the simple some relax and
Torn matter seems to fall towards the floor
As it seems people like me have a
While breaking in though
I doubted that I would see
For as the seconds tick like find a romance or
Near death experience that takes me back to Life
And the waters that tested me
Lord, I needed that west to see
The stunning of all time
For this test was a blessing to
So make in your mind to see
All these pencils or anarchy
Finding those hopes when
The man who sits drinking gasoline says,
Place yourself in the water, sir
A bring your friend too
These checkerboard floors tore
The minds that were sheltered
And hearts that drew nothing
One person had argued that
Day and night are but one
I never have felt this way
Want the same things
To live happily
Be all we can be
For once we achieve peace
The rest is easy
Rest is achieved when people
Of varied faiths live alike in
My dream is how I live my
But you decided to commit genocide.
And I am hard at work for the Catholic Church.
And with the poem ending such as it did, Richard Channing realized he had done things wrong. His wife was right to leave him hanging. He thought nothing of poetry and
the cliffs that lined the San Francisco Bay. He had never taken the streetcar there.
Because I figured that I had been lying about what everything I told myself, I decided to listen to this spirit who was physically doing the writing and drew a over
emphasized game of checkers.
I drew a chessboard and lied that if one placed other objects on a large surface that held other objects to the same basic shapes than the effect would show that I was
correct. I swore in what I believed was madness to confirm a doctrine of abbreviation; a tone and phrase that I should keep in my head.
It may have been psychosomatic.
But psychosomatic beliefs I am thankful for.
“Learning the game of power requires a certain way of looking at the world, a shifting of perspective.”
Robert Green – The 48 Laws of Power
I fear that this idea is easily transferable to all education. It quickly explains that learning is a shift in perspective. It is smart and broad, implying a variety
of things including an unwritten tone sales pitch for the ideas that follow.
I intend to use this reference to explain that I found the value in learning as much as I could. When I was prescribed psychiatric medicine I lost the world that
surrounded me. There was very little introspection in those days. I slept too much and went days without music and weeks without writing my ideas. I do not intend to blame the medication for past
woes. These mistakes were mine. Members of my circle decided that I was going in a different, spacey and artistic direction and decided to be what they wanted. This hurt, but I learned later that
we had been friends the whole time. That was heroin withdrawal at 15.
When I was stressed I took a pill. When I wanted to sleep I took a pill. When I woke up I took a different pill. Before I drank, I took a pill as so the other three
would not make me an antisocial lightweight. But I was cool, for what I had done before this point in my life.
These must have been classified as depressants. They make me slow moving and paranoid. They were there to make cure me of this affliction but I don’t remember having
that one any time before or after the use of psychiatric medicine. Either way, at the time I was too paranoid. I feared nuclear war caused by a conflict involving the USA.
I was having dreams that my floor was filled with hornets and if I were to step over the edge of my bed I would step on them, though they refused to fly. I tried to
avoid tall buildings for the chance occurrence of an out of place earthquake could bring them down. I do not remember ever being so afraid of the devil.
But I don’t want to hold any grudge against the people who prescribed me this medicine. They didn’t realize that I had been aware of my own situation and should have
devised a plan to keep it to myself.
It was that people with mechanical minds don’t know much about Niberu, a planet that is said to show up every three hundred thousand years or so. When I hear of this
legend I consider a scene from Independence Day, hope that it is not that technology, chuckle quietly and get back to work.
People like me wonder if it is just a phenomenon. Perhaps legend has it that every three hundred thousand years or so something like both Bell and Gray inventing the
telephone simultaneously happens and the world is in better shape because of it. This may have been represented as giants blessing kings.
Servants were blessed and brought to the king.
Maybe it has been that long since the invention of steel. This could give credible thought to the development of the various ages of human civilization, (the Iron Age,
the Bronze Age, etc.)
We have just gone through a series of incredibly fast technological developments.
Robotics has made of science fiction every day use in just less than 40 years. Yet the Internet is filled with tales of a mystical planet that crosses our path in an
odd elongated orbit every so often. This seems similar to the personification of lightning by our ancestors. I reflect next to my computer about what wonders we will be blessed with.
One can find out predictions by looking into a sort of mirror that appears to be filled with webs. When looking closer one can read that by using a certain attachment
a person can see a modern looking glass. Has magic always been this sort of technology? Is it that just now we are beginning to understand those ways of thinking?
Perhaps this time these chilly space giants will respect us and cure our ailments again. The mystery is if it will occur before or after the impending
If you are unable to reach a computer, yet you have a debit or credit card, you can simply drive to the coffee shop and borrow theirs. Furthermore, if you are unable
to find a car or Internet Café, you could fly to a region with these resources at hand so you can see these intriguing movies.
But I recommend learning in any field. It is also important to read and watch creative works.
With this in mind and dissertating a video about the subject of Niberu, I rebut.
Perhaps this is simply a phenomenon, and certain people choose not to believe in irony. To lose track of this thought, is the study of irony somewhat like the study of
They both seem indefinable.
Behavior of patients 520-1
So I sat here talking to some deadheads and needing a bowl of soup. Tell the men that left our head that our hero was filled with words. But we need some heroes and
criminals to grow and learn and tell them an entertaining story.
I hope I haven’t left you with the impression that this book is about me.
This book is about a strange young man that lives in this turn of the millennium. This man will grow up to become the president of the United States of America. His
life started with quite the bang.
“Each word is longer than the next,” he said, “So I need a drink.”
The man at the counter glanced at him and said, “There are three things direly wrong with that statement. First, you are not yet twenty-one. Second, you are at work.
And third, it is noon, you fool.”
And Richard Channing stammered, “But I need a drink. I do own this hall, page. I am the first born son of the Channing family.”
“There is a beer in the fridge,” a sullen old black man told him.
When the old black remembered this event later, thinking as well of a memory. He still saw tracers from the last time he had looked at the sun.
It had been years since he had seen young Master Channing as the man had fired him for writing and singing that song. Or maybe it was one to the tone of, “Jesus, just
put away their guns. Before they kill someone, I remember thinking this, so I stared into the sun. And sir, ask him if you want to keep your son.”
Somewhere around the time he was last able to sing the whole song, an awkward man in a funny hat showed himself to the page as a silhouette.
The skinny black man smiled and whispered, “He is this silence, my dear friend.”
And the butler left Richard Channing; never knowing whom the awkward man was until they met again in Summerland. The young white man who fired him did not know what he
had done. It was best that they had left when they did. There was little the old servant could do but smile.
Though Richard Channing remembers this day quite differently. “You are an angry teen,” he was saying to himself. He was worried
that every schoolmate he passed could hear his awkward and peculiar thoughts. He grew concerned when they looked as if they did.
“You were happy,” he choked in order to stifle what he knew was coming, “You were nice… And unabashedly friendly for three full days, but your playground superiors do
not approve of your revelation. So you turn black. You are pulled into a rage. You quickly stormed out of this school.” While saying this, he pushed a younger student on the stairs and spilled his
books to the ground dramatically.
He had to flee his first murder.
Our hero quickly called a cab from the street and takes it home to his father’s large mansion. The driver left him at the end of a winding driveway. He marched past a
guard, cursing in some daze about the lush grounds surrounding his palace.
As he passed the front porch the maid had not brought the cheddar cheese squares on sticks, so he smashed the overhead light. It fell to the ground and he stomped it
with two feet sure to twist the ruins of the broken glass into dust and marking the expensively varnished wood.
Richard Channing’s grey suit pants were covered in dust and he suddenly burst into tears. The crying lasted but a moment, until he slapped his own face. “Bitch!” he
screamed at himself before running inside, catching his pressed pants on a sliver he made in the varnished wood and tearing the leg up the side.
He began to do what most teenagers would, jumping towards the couch to try and break his neck. If he had truly wanted to he would have. But there our hero rested,
holding a throw pillow and twisting back and forth.
So he stood from the couch and stormed towards the kitchen. He grabbed a knife from the drawer and ran back to the living room. While he stabbed through the pillow
little Rick smiled, pausing to carve through the couch on the other side. He pulled the knife through the middle of the
cushion and tore the blade back towards himself.
He nearly cut his suit pants and threw the knife to the floor before running crying up the nearest stairs.
He found his thoughts in an upstairs bedroom. It was on the left at the end of the hall furthest from the stairs. It was the first time in ages that he sat on that bed
cross-legged and crying. When he stopped his tears he was shaking back and forth with his eyes fixed tight on the mirror behind the dresser.
He sat there still after a moment and mouthed words at his reflection, “Yeah, man. Keep crying. Ladies like that.”
He had learned from his father that strong words make strong people. It is okay to be hard on yourself once in a while. Always be faithful. Learn from tough words. Do
so with fortitude. That is the right thing to do.
So Rick Channing stood from his bed and straightened his sheets out.
He took off his school suit and began to speak his actions as he preformed them, “You slip out from here and put on a ragged tracksuit. You put on your fine leather
dress shoe and stomp down the stairs. You pick the knife up off the living room floor. You stomp your way through the down remains of the couch. White feathers mark the floor around the room and
the gash in the couch seems remarkable. You think that you will have to blame the oldest Mexican servant for you, of course, were at school. For this purpose I smile at the idea of the woman who
raised you to be hurt by your actions.”
He strolled out the front door of your family’s mansion, “This means you are better than the servant. So you slide the kitchen knife into your kangaroo pocket and
begin the march down the driveway to that big black gate. When you reach the end of the driveway you step past the guard, mentioning in passing that you must get back to school…”
This was a lie but it made him feel good.
His hooded sweatshirt is grey, like the clouds above his bitter world’s sky.
He knew that he should go back to his private school. The next course was math, taught by that sexy long-legged redhead. Dick had told a few students that he had
bought her dinner and jewelry in exchange for some tutoring and housekeeping.
None of that matters now. They all heard what he said. The funny thing was she hadn’t rebutted. The people at school must have known it was rude to discuss a pretty
teachers history with students. The student he had told felt he had a chance with this teacher if only he kept silent. He spent most of his classes grinning. He would wink when he answered a
question, quite as Richard suggested. And Dick Channing smiled his half a smile, crooked on the right of his face in such a way rumors of his health sometimes surfaced.
But Dick Channing would cringe at the thought that people in those hallways heard him when his thoughts drifted to fantasies of his father’s military brigade. The old
black and white photo had his fathers face burned out. Our hero had told friend he did that in a fight with him and he regretted it. The truth was he regretted it for other reasons.
He even doubted that the classmates even believed such tales of such a redhead.
The truth was, he didn’t even know if she was cute. It came from a conversation overheard in the hallway between classes. A calm terror made his left eye twitch
Richard cracked a crooked half smile instead.
These out of place thoughts came furious and scattered on some odd afternoon in May.
Lights and colors flashed around the streets and busy men walked along the winding boulevard. Richard moved to a side street to avoid seeing traffic to his family’s
estate. The street climbed slowly and he was soon tired. He liked strange days under cool air. It was the kind of day that could change your life forever. Richard found out what your life was to
He would be an outcast of pedigree blood, trying to live in high-society. His life as a homosexual was not one that could be glamorous. It would be the life that led
to very little respect from your peers. This was a curse that was laid upon him.
Richard did not apply for his position. He felt dealt some cursed and damned cards.
He had been taught to be religious. The nannies mentioned saints and claimed all this time that a creator existed. The Saints would teach that this world was not
without fate but the last thing he wanted to be was an outcast. It was his fate to be outcast in such a way. But was that the only thing he could be?
Our hero’s thoughts were coming too fast. He could not grab them as they flew past, let alone organize them in any usable way.
This Channing screamed in his head, “Why had you told these women this cruel truth? They had simply laughed and told the boys from your grade’s A-Squad rugby team. You
were standing next to one of their lockers. Then the teasing began. Those pretty-boy jocks you only knew from pictures. They finally knew your name and they thought you were… I can’t even say it.
You would never have a date, perhaps ever.”
And he strode through the commons at the private school, stopping quickly to use a bank machine to break a twenty for soda. A group of girls he walked past pointed at
him and giggled. Richard’s eye twitched again. He smiled at them, exposing a dimple on the right side of the face. The tallest girl shouted at him, he raised his arm to wave and then heard the
But if there was a creator, Richard thought, then he made he made me too. If he made the entire world and all the nannies then there may be a reason that people build
churches. This thought was brief but it was just so the people passing by would not hear the last one. Was there a God?
It was the first time Dick Channing had told himself that there was such a possibility.
He had lived under the roof of a tycoon his whole life.
Dad was a businessman who was rarely home. Mother spent most days in the city. Dick wondered briefly if they believed in the creator. His mother who once told him the
most honored note in his rather noble name. She referenced the name with a reverence for a still around king. This king was from England. He remembered the light fixture and its oak engraving.
Alternately he remembered these matters with a lighted focus, some of his will regarding the Toad of Toadsmere Hall.
And our hero would think, if there ever was a Creator, did a king have to believe in him? How about if the Creator never was? Was Richard the Lionhearted too busy,
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