|By Louched_Liver on Friday, November 23, 2001 - 03:04 am: Edit|
I like this format. Do continue...
|By Head_Prosthesis on Thursday, November 22, 2001 - 11:24 pm: Edit|
...this is the greatest story every written, I'm hooked...
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 22, 2001 - 10:51 pm: Edit|
The dog! Heee!
OK. When my friend went to Charlotte ahead of me, I had to take care of her dog, Hamlet. He was a sheltie, a sort of smaller version of a collie. They still have that sheep-hearding instinct, and he NEVER got tired. Hyper little pooch.
So. I trained him to freak out on command. I did this by playing with him, going just as nuts as he did. While I did this, I made raspberry noises.
Later, we were sitting around our place, and I made a rasberry noise to something she had said. "What the hell got into the dog???" she asked.
I told her. So she started doing it, and wouldn't stop even when I shouted at her to.
The dog was running as fast as he could, banging off of walls, furniture, thud! thud! thud!
So she opened the door.
He didn't come back for three hours.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 03:02 am: Edit|
During this time, I was reading the books of Carlos Castenada.
I recognised the techniques employed by his sorcerer-teacher, and laughed at the obviousness of the lessons.
In these books, the moth is the sign of knowledge. One night, I felt I needed to go outside, and there on the railing of our apartment complex, I saw a moth.
It was green and gold, the size of my palm, and so beautiful I wept.
So it goes.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:57 am: Edit|
Errata: a phone company I will not name, but who's acronymn contains the first letter of the alphabet and two Ts and the ampersand told us to do wrong.
When an irate customer called, and said "I want a manager!" the reps were instructed (by this company that was paying us) to put the customer on hold for half an hour.
Then the rep was to pick up and say "I'm sorry for the hold time." If the customer was still recalcitrant in their demand for management, the rep was to place them on 'eterna-hold' meaning they used the other lines on their phones to take calls and forgot about the customer.
Eventually, this customer of EDS was to terminate their contract. 60 people were on that project.
Dave said "I promise you all that you will still have a job when the contract ends."
He was lying, the fucker. He had said the "still have jobs" thing in front of several hundred people.
He told the call-center supervisors in our weekly meeting that those people were all to be fired.
We rebelled, openly.
He took a two week, unscheduled vacation. The employees kept their jobs, transferred by us to other projects.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:45 am: Edit|
Errata: This guy Dave, who was the High Grand Poobah of the Charlotte call center, was a crazy prick.
A bomb threat was called in. We were in the same strip-mall building as the welfare office, who had been threatened with Doom.
Dave was waiting, across the parking lot (about 600 yards away from the building) when my friend went out for a cigarrette. This was at 3PM or so, the designated apocolypse.
She approached him and asked why he was all the way over there. "Don't go back in the building" he told her, cause she is dead sexy.
The bomb was said to go off at three, but he hadn't told anyone. Didn't want to take people off of the phones and lose productivity.
When I came into work later, and heard of this, I said "Is Dave in his office now?"
It must have been my tone of voice, but all the other supervisors grabbed me by the arms, by the shoulders and said "it's not worth it."
He took a two week unscheduled vacation then.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:33 am: Edit|
So anyway, I was in Charlotte at whiles. I used to hang out with a guy named Joe, who was a supervisor.
He had been a crack-head (like the sort at the laundromat across from the office) before he Got Clean, and Got a Job.
We used to talk about things, about what we would do if we were in charge of the company.
Then, a bolt from the blue, my friend (This is not her name) Jan called me.
I had been her first boss at EDS, and a damn good one I was too.
She said "I got a job with this ISP, (name ommited) and they have this code of ethics that they go by! And they really do!"
So I checked it out, and it was almost to the point what me and Joe had decided was the way to run a business.
I got an interview.
I wasn't accepted. But me and my sister-friend, we had realized that moving far away was only getting the same trouble in a different state.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:25 am: Edit|
Mike,that boss of mine, had been an airplane pilot. But then trouble with his inner ears had made him stay with the rest of us, on the ground.
He loved the Beatles.
Then, married though he was, he took up with a mistress, a girl we worked with. She was amazingly incompetent, yet still managed to get promoted.
It came after time, that he was demoted, broken, and wondering just what the hell was the fucking point of it all?
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:22 am: Edit|
I don't know why, unless it is my charisma (a skill) but once in a while, women are attracted to me.
There was a Jamaican girl on my team, short, pretty, and stinky. Her I told "we can't go out. I'm your boss, and we would both be fired."
And a girl who was a supervisor like I was, that I was interested in as she was interested in me.
She was fat- obese. I gather that made it hard for her to do that sort of thing, dating and the like. But I was a monster, and did not care.
So we started going out, her and I. But she would never reveal anything, and I mean like where she went to high-school or what kind of beer she liked.
I talked to her about it. She said she was just uncomfortable revealing anything about herself. "If we are to have any kind of relationship" I said "then you have to tell me these things just like I tell them to you."
We were friends after that.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:14 am: Edit|
My boss, Mike, he called me into his office. He said "now normally, I'm OK with people who work here going out with whoever they want."
I thought 'oh shit.'
"But if it starts to interfere with work, y'know, I have to do something."
"Sam says that you and her have been..."
I said "not to be crude, Mike... but not with a ten-foot pole and somebody else's dick."
"That's about what I thought" he replied, "but I had to ask."
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 02:10 am: Edit|
The EDS call center in PA, before I moved to Charlotte.
I was dating (without his knowledge) my boss's daughter. One night, she said to me "will you be my man?" And I said "sure."
So there was this girl, on my team. She worked for me, and she was crazy. Not funny-ha-ha-crazy, but fucked in the head crazy.
I had tickets to Jethro Tull, and one of my friends couldn't go. I stood up among the cubicles and said "if anyone like's Jethro Tull, I got a ticket for ya!"
This girl on my team, Sam, she said "I love Jethro Tull!" So we went. She thought it was a date.
Wasn't, not hardly. Later, she realized I didn't fancy her. So she told my boss's boss she needed a transfer to another location, because I was fucking her and she didnt think it was kosher for her to work for me.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 01:59 am: Edit|
In this time also I came to become what I am today- I sought (as I had long sought but never so completely) the Answer, the Underlying Truth of the world.
We moved to North Carolina, her and I, with our jobs. We both felt we needed a change, a chance to reinvent what we were.
We found positions at EDS in Charlotte. She preceeded me as a quality control person (listening to phone calls and passing feedback to the supervisors of the representatives.)
When I moved down, I was a 'developer.' The first meeting with my boss (whom I had met briefly before when he worked in PA) he told me he would give me objectives and I would try to accomplish them.
My job was to take people and make them better at what they did.
I took my call center, a distant number 3 of 3 in quality and quantity of work on the Primestar project, to a distant number 1 in two months.
I made my own schedule, sometimes working 20 hours a week, sometimes 80.
And when I got there, the Primestar project was about to be cut, because the center was doing so badly.
I saved roughly 100 people's jobs.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 01:50 am: Edit|
I was condescending. A fuck. A worthless, less-than-a-man thing.
It was awful. Horrible. To feel myself give way before this Thing.
Then came one night when I had realized I had no reason to continue, that I was losing the fight.
I drank a bottle of Goldshlagger, and decided it was time to end it.
I told her I was going to do it, and she said she didn't want me to, teary eyed.
But I left, and I didn't look back. What stopped me was that it was growing light out.
It was too bright, and I had intended to throw myself from the bridge. But there were too many people about, and somehow I didn't want witnesses. It would make me feel dirty.
So I went back, and said "I couldn't do it." I told her it was because I couldn't leave her like this, and that too many people were on the shore. And it was true on both counts.
I fought my way free. I became a man again.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 01:42 am: Edit|
So I started working, at this place as a temp. I took phone calls all day from customers of the Primestar satellite TV system (of the Time Warner division.)
As time passed, I became a not-quite-peon. I was in charge of EDS-Primestar tech relations. I was the interface between us and the hundreds of local offices around the country.
Then I became a supervisor.
As time passed, having no raison d'etre, I lost my soul to The Company. The friend I mentioned earlier (sister I will always love) once almost stopped being my friend, because of the terrible blankness I had assumed.
I was consumed by the job, because I knew nothing else. It is still the most terrible time in my life that I can remember.
I tried to fight my way out of that grey, dronelike state, but it was the hardest thing for me.
I remember once listening to a NIN song "the me that you know is now made up of wires, and even when I'm right with you, I'm so far away. I could try to get away, but I strap myself in..."
My sister friend had given me a comic book (the Maxx) and I looked at her and said "why did you give this to me?" because I could not see the practical value in it.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 21, 2001 - 01:31 am: Edit|
There is a certain release in this. A giddy feeling, typing these things that not many know on a public forum.
I flash you mentally! HA! My trenchcoat reveals:
So then I got a corporate job, having withdrawn from two semesters at the local community college (relapse.)
I worked for EDS, Corporate Whores For Sale. The company was started by Ross Perot, out of the trunk of his car in the '60s.
Electronic Data Systems would do whatever you needed doing as a sub-contractor, be it computer systems or call center work.
Once, some employees were kidnapped in the middle east. When the US Government refused to help, ol' Ross hired himself some mercs.
The mercenaries went in, rescued the employees, and killed all the kidnappers. You can read all about it in 'on the wings of eagles.' The eagle was the logo for a while, though now it is a blue square with the letters EDS spelled out in italics.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Tuesday, November 20, 2001 - 06:01 pm: Edit|
I read this (godforsaken) Forum everynight. You've at least got one alert member in the audience.
...huh huh... "alert member"
|By Verawench on Tuesday, November 20, 2001 - 02:45 pm: Edit|
Yes! It's spell-binding, like voyeurism.
|By Louched_Liver on Tuesday, November 20, 2001 - 12:12 pm: Edit|
Keep peckin' C-man!
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:57 pm: Edit|
That's all for now.
If anyone wants continuing Rabbity Tales, speak up, or I will forever hold my peace (this is long, and I don't want to keep at it if there is not some value in it for those who read it.)
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:42 pm: Edit|
Empathy became second nature- I was one of those people who could see right to the bottom of a person in five minutes. But I didn't judge, because I was a monster with no critera, and I would have rejected the idea of judgement had I had them.
I was the guy at parties that complete strangers would open up to in a minute, telling me all their deepest, darkest secrets.
Through this I developed the skill of charisma- I could make people laugh or be magnetized to my every word.
I used to do it on purpose- when we were eating, I would say something so funny that someone (my chosen target) would spew their beverage out their nose. It was an amusing game.
Once I made my friend spew citrus vodka. He said "I can feel it FIZZING. AAAAAH!"
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:38 pm: Edit|
I never really did find out why. But that wasn't the end of it either.
Through a friend of hers, at a party, I met a girl who was to become my sister, in every way but blood. To her I owe much.
We have seen each other through terrible times and had a hell of a lot of good ones too. Loucheliver has met her- ain't she cool?
While at this party, I drank alcahol for the first time in order to feel it's effects. I was 22 (I didn't like the feeling previously.)
I was in a black depression because this girl had cut all contact with me. I wasn't to see her again until April, more or less by chance.
We role-played, the lot of us, and drank. And then in the early morning, we both woke where we had fallen asleep on the floor, among all of the rest of the gang.
We sort of spontaneously had sex. I hope we didn't wake anyone up, but I still don't know.
Then I didn't see her again until July- we had all gotten tickets to see Pink Floyd before this strange separation. She showed. I confronted her after the concert in the car, and she had no good answers, save that I had hurt her terribly (but couldn't say how.)
I knew then that I must study people until I knew them inside and out. I had tried to tell her that I was not like the other boys, but she didn't believe me. "You think you're different, but you aren't. Everybody thinks that- but everyone is the same."
Somehow I had caused her pain through some remark, or action, and I didn't know why. I couldn't- I was still to sociopathic.
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:24 pm: Edit|
What finally pulled me into personhood was a woman.
She was my friend, part of our circle, role-playing, anime watching, freaky people that we were.
Her home life was bad. Very, very bad. She became engaged to my best friend, but that fell through (badly.)
They were able to pull a sort of halting friendship out of it. And I was the one who got to tell him he had been dumped for a girl (she had discovered bisexuality.)
A few years passed. She came on to me one day, while we were in the woods picking berries.
This blew my mind. I was dumpy, unattractive, with a bowl-cut, and a permanently bad posture. I had so firmly fixed these facts in my mind that the thought of a woman wanting me that way, well, it wasn't even in the realm of possiblity.
I was scared, and more, I didn't want to ruin our friendship. And I felt bad about the fact she used to be engaged to my best friend.
About a year passed. Then one day, snowed in, one thing led to another.
As far as my stunted heart was able, I fell in love. She, on the other hand, by this point looked at sex as just sex.
We were friends, who had sex. I didn't know that. Hindsight is 20/20- she was working at a massage parlor at the time, but like I said, I was new to this 'human feelings' stuff.
Once, for my birthday, she offered me a menage a trois, but I turned it down, as I was not fond of the proposed third and it wierded me out.
So- then one day, after I had been more or less living with her for several months, and friends with her for much longer than that, she stopped seeing me.
She didn't say "I don't want to see you." She just stopped calling back, or coming around, or answering the door.
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:15 pm: Edit|
In my Junior year, I suddenly had friends. Good ones. I would die for some of them still- we were more like brothers than friends.
We used to play role-playing games (and still do sometimes) like Dungeons and Dragons, Vampire, Shadowrun...
As the years passed, and I came to be better and better at getting into character, I realized that this was an amazing way to try on a new personality. Sometimes, my characters would think things I never would.
This is also what allowed me to first, finally, begin to achieve empathy, to become a person rather than the sociopath I was.
Not to mention the wonders of being able to think things you had no right thinking. Playing con-men, I learned to con. Playing subtle magicians, I learned subtlety. You get the idea.
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 10:10 pm: Edit|
One day, after the bastard was in jail for a long time, I realized that even thinking of that night in the storm made my heart beat faster, made me feel as if it was all happening again.
I thought about that.
Eventually, I was able to abbreviate the thoughts that triggered this surge of adrenaline. After a time, I only thought the wordless command, with no resort to those memories, and I had a rush of fight or flight juices.
Very useful for staying awake on a long trip.
It was around then I began to think of me as a thing I could alter at will.
Since then, I have gained control of most of the processes of my body that interest me.
It's a simple method, really. You find an intense experience (one that still brings on the reaction in memory) and slowly whittle down the amount of necessary remembering.
And after a time of this, you don't even need an intense experience- any that cause the reaction you desire to duplicate will do.
I would stay away from heart rate if I were you, unless you are very, very sure- a friend of mine, through obsessive concentration on his own (he was afraid it would stop at any moment) used to throw his into the wrong gear all the time.
Also, avoid controlling your endorphine system (the happy juice) unless your self control is very very up to it. Otherwise, you will find yourself triggering it whenever you want to feel good, which is all the time for most people.
I do have control of mine, but I am loath to use it. I used to use it to pull myself out of chemically based depression, but stopped at that point.
Now when I see the signs it's a subconcious habit, but again- a good way to spend a lot of time on the couch staring at the wall unless you are damn capable of not minding not feeling good all the time.
The trigger I used was hot food- that endorphine rush brought on by singapore chow my fun, to be exact.
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 09:59 pm: Edit|
Rewiring your own brain- an instruction manual in the form of a story.
So me brains- yessiree bob. You read of my romance with quicksilver. By the time I came to 10th grade, I was a bit of a mess.
I had learned to hide it, but everyone knew I was tetched.
I had to do everything twice (or four times if it didn't work) convinced as I was that the world would end if I did not, for example, put the cap on the toothpaste, take it off, and put it back again.
Once on my way to the table at lunch, my friend said to me "what are you doing? The two-step?" Because I had to take a step, and then go back and take it again.
I will not bore you with a catalog of my dementations, but to say that one day, when the voices were very, very bad and had been for awhile...
I got off the bus and walked to the cliff up the hill from my apartment complex. There were woods, and a steep, jagged drop to the creek (which intersects the river there) far, far below.
I told the voices in my head (whom I thought were demons) that if they didn't leave me alone, we were all going down right now. And I meant it.
I don't know if it was that decision that gave me peace, which is to say, what the mechanism was, but after that, I was in charge. Not the voices.
They still whispered and screamed and such, but it was I who was the master. What they said, I reviewed- is this thought worthwhile or not?
This filtration system, this central decision making utility, this taking of my own thoughts up for review, is what saved me from the booby hatch.
For a very long time now, they have been at my beck and call, showing me strange mental landscapes, performing menial calculative tasks.
In short, I ate them.
|By Mr_Rabid on Monday, November 19, 2001 - 09:45 pm: Edit|
More pellets from the Life and Times O Mister Rabbit:
It wasn't all sturm und drang. I read, starting at about age 10, first tolkien and then stephen king, and then every horror novel I could get my hands on, and then all the science fiction and fantasy I could find.
For awhile there, I was reading a book a day.
In class, I would hear my name, look up from the novel I was reading, and answer the question (correctly for the most part.) My teachers left me alone most of the time.
I also had terrible penmanship. When I was in first grade, they made me take an IQ test, but the result was way to high for me to be a 'tard, so they said "the lad has disgraphia."
Most of the time writing was a struggle, and then when I wouldn't concentrate, I would draw the most beautiful perfect 'M' for instance (I remember doing that when I noticed this) but the word called for an 'L'. Erase. Draw horrible illegible L. Repeat.
I later used the same mental paths I grew when I learned kata in karate class to write with. It works pretty well.
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 07:00 pm: Edit|
But what could motivate such an act? You read this account with horror, perhaps, thinking 'what kind of a monster is this Mr Rabid? Rabid indeed.'
Let me describe daily life that year, my sophomore year.
Doug worked at a gas station on the nightshift. He pumped gas, but mainly what he did was sell coccaine.
Each day, after school, my mother and I must go with him and sit at the gas station.
We must not speak. I must do my homework. If I had no homework, I may listen to the radio, quietly.
We must not leave the gas station. Each night, for eight hours. I was allowed to leave my chair to pee, if I asked nicely.
Sometimes he would spend the evening threatening us.
This is a tiny slice of life.
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:25 pm: Edit|
He never came back after that. My mother let slip the whole murder thing (I shouldn't have told her I guess, but it was too late to do it when I did) and I was sitting there looking through the glass of the visitation window when she did.
I suppose he saw the look in my eyes.
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:22 pm: Edit|
Errata: That was the night I had planned for his murder.
He would normally pass out, you see, dead to the world from too much beer and too much whiskey.
Here was my plan: that old Gran Torino wouldn't start in the wintertime without the application of a can of spray-ether, sold in auto stores for the purpose.
I had set my alarm for 2AM, and was planning to get up, go to the basement. My mother was sleeping on the couch at this point so I wasn't worried about her being in the way.
I would spray-ether him in the face, till I knew he would not wake up. The whiskey would be spilled liberally on him and the bed, and placed in his hand as if he had passed out there.
The bed was covered in cigarette holes, as he was given to passing out before he finished his smoke.
A lighter, a few minutes before I "woke up" and called the fire department, and the terror of daily life would end.
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:18 pm: Edit|
Incedent: He was drunk, and carrying my mother by the back of her blouse, banging her semi-concious head off of the sidewalk. It was during a storm, and this I was woken up by in lightning flashes.
A well meaning neighbor attempted to stop him, and was punched out.
A cop showed up, and they struggled on the ground, lit by lightning flashes and the porchlights on the backs of the buildings. Doug almost got the cops gun. Almost.
A good thing for both of us he did not. I was the only one who had followed them behind the building, but I had a steak knife and I would have been on his back in a trice. As it was, I took the knife back to the kitchen.
Back to jail!
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:15 pm: Edit|
When he got out, we lived in a little apartment complex. He would get drunk, and violent. I was in my freshman year of high school.
He could continue to live with us because of the terror he inspired in my mother.
Incedent: He decided my mother would sign a blank check for him. She resisted. He got a knife. She ran from the house. I was playing outside, unaware of all this... he saw me and asked me, way too casually, to come inside with him.
I smelled the trouble (I knew that look in his eyes) and in the living room, I delayed just long enough to cause suspicion (he was walking ahead of me.) "What are you doing?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "Hanging up my coat" I said.
That reassured the idiot. He told me to meet me in the basement (where their room was, the other two being our room-mates and mine) and proceeded out of my view into the kitchen.
I ran. I passed my mother with him in hot pursuit and yelled "RUN!" She turned and saw me, but he had her in a flying tackle and it was too late. She was drug into the apartment.
I saw a neighbor and his teenaged daughter doing yard work. I hopped the fence, and asked if I could please use the phone to call 911. The neighbor wanted to know why. I explained. He told me "I used to work in drug enforcement, these guys never do what they say they are going to do. Just go home, it will be OK."
I had seen Doug stab a man in a back-street late one night. An argument over the right of way at a four way stop. He wasn't caught for that.
So I ran down the hill and through the woods to the nearest police station. Huffing and puffing, I got there, and the door was locked. I ran round the other side of the building where the fire station is, and asked for a fucking cop.
Just then one pulled up, and I walked in front of his car to stop him.
Off to jail, fucker!
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:05 pm: Edit|
So we came eventually back to Pennsylvania. Doug had been serving his two year or so sentance in the state prison at Harrisburg, which he was to be in and out of for the next few years.
There was a riot I think I have mentioned here, in which the state police were picking off the prisoners through the fence- not the ones who were causing the riot, just kinda randomly, it seems.
They were reported as AIDS related deaths for the most part. At least, that is what the guards and prisoners said, and there were a hell of a lot of faces missing on visiting day.
|By Mr_Rabid on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 06:02 pm: Edit|
Sociopath I was, Chonger, but not a bully.
I just didn't understand that my actions were causing bad feelings in my opponents.
But for the most part, I actually defended the other kids who were picked on. I did very little picking-on myself. I derived no special satisfaction from it, you see. I wasn't insecure and needing to prove my worth- I just had a love of strife.
|By Louched_Liver on Thursday, November 15, 2001 - 02:30 pm: Edit|
Ever do X Chongmeister? It was no favor.
Lovely stuff. Kind of like the absinthe of our day. Unjustly attacked. Formerly used medicinally (well, in therapy). Shit, legal until '85. And, apparently less harmful than alcohol, if not used to launch oneself into the nether reaches of dumb-dosage-dom.
|By Bob_Chong on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 05:44 pm: Edit|
Unless you accidentally "threw them away" into the hands of a police officer, you probably did yourself a favor, in the long run.
|By Louched_Liver on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 05:06 pm: Edit|
What an interesting writer's guild to stumble upon here in the archives!! I kept seeing the recent posting dates and couldn't figger out why anyone would post to an old thread. Glad I investigated.
Remind me to tell you the sad, sad tale of accidently throwing away 20 hits of Ecstasy sometime.
|By Bob_Chong on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:32 pm: Edit|
Well, it did all get shitty for you after the abduction, but before that, you sounded like quite the sociopathic bully yourself (ironically).
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 07:21 am: Edit|
|By Verawench on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 06:42 am: Edit|
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:46 am: Edit|
Sleepy now, and must work on the morrow.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:46 am: Edit|
Sleepy now, and must work on the morrow.
I will post more if any of you would hear of it.
It is a most interesting story, I think.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:27 am: Edit|
We stood on a bridge, my mother, grandmother and I, and saw the Space Shuttle launch (before Challenger.) I
t was like sunset in the distant sky for a few moments, and then we watched the flare climb up, up until it was only a star, moving across the heavans for purposes we knew.
After the Challenger, though, the TV news told us that the astronauts knew they were doomed from the moment the engines lit.
Beachcombers for weeks found pieces of bodies, hearts and feet and livers, with "what could be a piece of burned blue sock."
None of them were from the ill-fated crew, and three days into the affair, the news changed it's tune, to say that the brave astronaus Never Knew What Hit Them.
Two old ladies found what they reported as a massive amount of Marijhuanna, floating up on the beach at dawn. They were later prosecuted, because they had found more than the reported.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:18 am: Edit|
Venal dodgers, my grandparents!
The only time I saw my mother was when she would get home from a shift at the grapefruit plant, and find me awake.
We used to watch the 'Amazing Stories' TV show in the other room, on a little black and white TV, and laugh at Grace and Frank's (grand-parents) stupidity.
So time passed, and I had a bicycle and learned to ride it, and found strange spiders in the woods, and felt myself a little beyond the teachings of Gifford Middle Seven.
Errata: Once, we heard a rumor in the lunch room that the space shuttle Challenger exploded. We didn't believe it, but walked out of lunch room to see the smoke hanging in the air. We used to watch the launches from a bridge near town.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:09 am: Edit|
My mother got out, after my grandparents did what they could to do so. They told her the sentance had ben commumted (rendered null) but were lying.
So I watched Robotech (still one of my favorite shows) and went to Gifford Middle Seven, while she slaved in the Indian River Grapefruit plant, 16 hours a day, no breaks.
I will pass over much of this period, save to say that she worked like a dog, and my grandparents (God rest their souls, or not) told her they didn't have enough money for lunchmeat.
She must go to work each day with a cheese and mustard sandwitch for lunch. We ate Boar (grandfather worked construction and had to shoot them daily) and heart-of-palm for dinner, among the usual grocery-store fare.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 01:02 am: Edit|
Two days later, still unsure of the fate of my mother and the Evil Doug, I woke up in the rented house of my grandparents.
"Johnny died" my grandmother (Grace) told me. Very matter of fact. He had a tumor of some kind for a year before all this, so I knew it would happen someday. He (she) was wrapped in a tube of paper-towel on the bottom of his cage.
I took him into the back yard and buried him, marking his grave with a shell.
The street the house (and perhaps twenty others) was on was sand, flattened each week by the Grader Machines. There were endless shells in the sand, all bleached white by the passing of ages uncounted before the advent of humanity. My grandmother and I used to go out and collect the choicest ones after the Grader had passed each week.
My mother was in prison, for Aiding and Abetting.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:54 am: Edit|
Well, back to my continuing tale, the jig was up.
I remember wishing I had a dog, and that me and that dog would travel around the world together, just me and him.
They had a terrific fight, mom and Doug. I wrote a farewell note in toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, apologizing for causing the fight and wishing them both well, and started walking down the beach.
I was forming plans for getting food and maybe a dog, walking slower than I maybe knew I should have (I was scared) when I saw my mother down the beach. She caught up with me and told me not to waste toothpaste. It wasn't that she was concerned over the toothpaste, you understand, just that she was upset and didn't know how to express it.
We moved on, down to Florida. She had, at long whiles, convinced Doug that the only way to come through this was to turn himself in.
They resolved to do so, but decided to leave me with my Grandparents in Vero Beach. They called them on a payphone, told them where to pick me up.
I was waiting in a darkened parking lot at a big truck-stop when they pulled up.
That was, she has told me, the hardest thing my mother has ever done, leaving me and the parakeet there. She knew he would kill me, Doug would, if it did not go this way.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:46 am: Edit|
Errata: Before we left Pennsylvania, we stayed in a hotel across from Dutch Wonderland, a local amusement park. Doug gave me a pocket knife, my first ever (he fancied himself my father) and with it I disassembled all of my GI-Joe figures.
I reassembled them with each other's body parts.
Then my mother used about $7.00 of the last $20.00 they had (in Virginia, I think) to buy me a toy. It was a M.A.S.K motorcycle, which changed into a helicopter.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:38 am: Edit|
THEN!!! Then it happened.
My mother's boyfriend of the time, whom I disliked on sight, was named Doug.
He was the sort of fellow who wears jean jackets, day in and day out.
Well, one day Doug (who it turns out was on parole) went back into the slammer. County jail, which for those of you reading outside the US means he was guilty of stealing, drug charges, but not murder.
Time passed. Doug walked out of work-release (where they let the prisoners go and work at a shitty job each day but they must come home to gaol.)
I came home to find the door of our apartment open, a bad sign I knew. Nobody home. I watched He-Man, sat around. Did my homework.
Then Doug came and said "get in the car." I did, and we went to cheap hotel. My mother was there, and (I learned later) had been forced, upon pain of my death, to stay.
It went like this- Doug was running from the law, and his woman (my mom) and I were going with him, or somebody was going to die, namely me.
We got in the green Ford Gran Torino, and we drove south, always south. There were times that we didn't have enough to eat, and Doug would shoplift bread or hotdogs from a convenience store.
I fed my parakeet, Johnny, in his cage with most of what we owned that would fit in the car, bits of stolen bread, while he (it was a she, but I always thought of it as he) cheeped disconsolately.
We ended up at a beach town in South Carolina. My mother said 'we will stay here, and you will geta job' to Doug. She registered me at school, but used my real name and hers, to which Doug reacted furiously. The jig, he knew, was fucking well up now.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:28 am: Edit|
O' Head! Saviour of Nuns!
Where was I?
Oh yes. For some reason, the onset of Sixth Grade (Middle School!) messed up my little brains quite a bit.
I lay awake the night before, sobbing, yelling to my mother in the other room that I couldn't do it. I couldn't face it.
She reassured me.
Sixth grade was when I learned that I was Not Like The Other Children.
I carried all my books around in my backpack, because I couldn't be sure I would remember my locker combination.
The year I was extemely nervous, all the time.
I don't know why. I have tried to figure it out but just can't tell what the dividing line between innocence and fear was.
Anyhow, I was socially inept. Hindsight says the children around me were feeling emotions I didn't understand, and I was having increasing difficulty in relating to them.
Once, in shop class, a boy named Eric pushed a nail down my pants, into my exposed ass-crack.
This humilated me. Eric then proceeded to rip my backpack (the cheapest available- we were poor) apart.
That was the run of things, me carrying my books in my ruined backpack and dreaming of murder.
Then one day I had a new backpack (why didn't you tell me it was broken, my mother asked.)
I was bored in class. I had begun reading the year before, first Tolkein, and then Stephen King. Books about cumulous clouds and fractions did not interest me.
So I began pushing my pencils, inch by slow inch, through the hole in the zipper tag of my new backpack. This endowed them with an interesting spiral pattern, all down the pencil. Soon I had attracted friends, and interest. I was called upon to spiralize the pencils of all of my classmates.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:10 am: Edit|
Have at it...
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:10 am: Edit|
OK. Done for now.
Not sober anymore either, and I am drinking...
If any of you want to know the Continuing Tales of Mister Rabid, post here and say so.
Otherwise, I will not waste bandwidth, and instead shall go and sulk in the corner, foaming and drinking myself into a frenzy.
I will take my postmodern angst and premodern fury out on Nuns or Schoolchildren instead.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:05 am: Edit|
I was fearless because I was ignorant.
I did not know that Carl would feel bad. I did not know the anxiety and fear that came with these incidents for my opponents.
I didn't feel fear much at all. I didn't know why people laughed, or cried, or any such things.
I liked the Transformers. And He-Man. And I liked to dream, and I was fond of the sunset and the ocean.
I was innocent.
All that was about to change.
|By Mr_Rabid on Wednesday, November 14, 2001 - 12:00 am: Edit|
This gutspilling is fun! I continue, not knowing if I have readers, but kind of hoping.
It was not all bully-whacking I did in those days.
The special Ed kids, the retards, were also a target of my attentions.
There was one, the leader of the fifteen or so of them, known as Candyman. He was called Candyman because he had a fondess for sitting on people (he was immensly fat) and singing the song 'The Candyman.'
I kid you not.
Well, I used to torment him, and his friends. Once I hid all his Star Wars figures in the snow.
They chased me one day, the whole lot of them, and I was *not* eager to have a repeat performance of crushing weight to the tune of The Candyman.
I remember running past my friends (Matt, Jason and Josh) yelling "help!" while they laughed at me. It was kinda funny.
There was a girl among them, the second in command as it were, who was almost upon me. I curled into a ball very suddenly on the ground, a favorite trick of mine, and she tripped over me sprawling.
They caught me eventuallly and held me down, and asked if I would be on "their side." Sure I would, I told them. Of course.
They let me up, and I yelled "maybe when hell freezes over!" Such swearing!
They chased me for awhile longer, but eventually gave up.
|By Mr_Rabid on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 11:48 pm: Edit|
Did you know Miller Lite used to contain formaldehyde? Glowed in a blacklight too. That was what they drank.
In fifth grade, back once again in the suburban school where I had spent first and second grade, there was a boy named Carl.
Carl was big and strong and tall. He was also new to the school and did not beleive the reputation I had (for being fearless and not to be messed with.)
Carl knocked me down on the macadam of the playground. As he lay on me, fierce and ready to start hitting, I saw that the hollow at the base of his throat (above the ribcage) was particularly well defined.
Perhaps I'd seen it on an episode of Kung Fu (with David Carradine!) In any case, I stuck the first two fingers of my right hand in there, and Carl's eyes got wide.
We stood up carefully, Carl and I, and I led him around the playground like that, talking to people. After recess, he left me alone.
I saw him once in sixth grade, from a distance (we were in different classes and such) and he gave me a look of hatered more pure than anyone has ever given me before or since.
Later, there was another bully, John. He had a toady, much smaller, who's name I do not remember. John had come to our school because he had been kicked out of two others for Smoking and General Fuckheadedness.
Things proceeded as usual. He said something fuckheaded or other, I pushed him down unexpectedly.
We agreed to meet after school (he was concerned about getting in trouble) at a particular corner.
I went home another way, not out of fear, but because I knew it would bug him. He was kicked out of school the next day for Smokin and Being A General Fuckhead. Fifth grade! I wonder where he is now.
|By Mr_Rabid on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 11:39 pm: Edit|
We lived, through third and fourth grade, my mother and I with her boyfriend, who was a bastard.
He was one of those guys who wear a jean jacket, day in and day out, and he worked at the chicken processing plant (Farmers Pride) we lived above.
The stink in the summers was fantastic.
In any case, he was jealous that my mother put me before him. He took it out on me in little ways.
"Take all you want, but eat all you take" he would tell me at dinner time, while he filled my plate.
I got fat- I wasn't allowed to leave the general vicinity of the house, because it was a rough neighborhood. Truth be told, I had no friends anyway but the other white kid and the Cambodian, and they didn't come around much anyway. I stayed home and played with my action figures.
And the mercury my grandfather had given me in a little jar. I played with it till it was all gone, not being aware of skin-absorbtion and heavy metal poisoning.
That was the year my shoes started telling me I'd got the wrong answer on my math homework. Fucking shoes.
Shortly after the boyfriend made me eat until I had to vomit in her presence (he had always had a care to do it when she wasn't home before) we left and moved back across the river.
A side note- I'd had my revenge. I had pissed in his beer when he wasn't looking often enough to feel better about things when he drank it down.
|By Mr_Rabid on Tuesday, November 13, 2001 - 11:28 pm: Edit|
This is autobiographical. And unlike Vera, I am not sober, but I am not drinking either.
I live my life in a cell. Monastic, as it were, but yet I've made of it my prison. Myself, this cell.
In the long and varied corridors, the endless vaults and chasms of my own self ordered mind, there are to be found wonders that even I cannot long look upon, and terrors that I cannot help but gaze at.
This has the sound of melodrama, but of course, it is true.
Gazing at the terrors was the first step, when I was a child, that I took. I attacked my nightmares, and became the monster in my dreams, the sharp toothed and battle ready protagonist before whom legions of zombies and whole flocks of schoolyard bullies ran wailing.
And as it was in dreaming, so it was in my waking life.
I saw (in the draft) my closet door moving. Mindful of prowlers, I took the scissors and opened it wide, slashing and stabbing.
I'd told my mother this (I was given to telling her such things as most little boys are) and one day she tested me, to see if I was lying?
I missed her by a hair's breadth, and she swore at my asking never to do such a thing again.
A bully- Tyrel, tyrant of the schoolyard. He was tiny, perhaps fifty pounds in the fourth grade, just like I was. But he was a terror, and he had two very large enforcers to back his pronouncements.
Me, I hung out with the other white kid at school, and the only Cambodian.
I forget what it was he said, but I gave it right back, and saw without fear the lunging enforcers.
I ran (I was a terribly fast runner in those days) and the enforcers were too slow, so Tyrel himself gave chase to me, and we ran around the schoolyard until recess period was over.
The teachers blew the whistles, and the classes all lined up. Tyrel and I were last, he still in pursuit of me, and so I came to the end of the line, covered my eyes with my hand (I did not know how to fight and I figured this was going to hurt a lot) and put my arm, fist made, out behind me.
Tyrel ran into it with his face and fell down.
Later, an enforcer saw me over Christmas vacation, from a good distance (I knew him by his knit cap) and gave chase to me.
This was not a fast chase, because the ground was covered with snow, and on the snow ice had formed a crust (it had rained) and all the branches were encased in crystal.
I paused in the alley behind the school, because I found some pussy-willows so encased and I thought they were beautiful.
I didn't have far to home (across the street in fact) and I thought I had slipped him, but I peeked around a corner and saw him, methodically searching. I knew it wouldn't be long before he came to the alley.
I walked carefully accross the pristine crust on the playground. My lack of tracks was enough (I saw from around another corner) to make him abandon the alley. Too stupid to see my tracks stop at the playground, I guess.
Tyrel came into class after break and confessed to our teacher, Mr Woodell, that he had peed blood.
He left school then with a kidney condition.
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