.., blind to intent, the abstract worries and warps deprived dilettantes desperate to believe a belief they believe should be. Manifested through myths of mis-interpretation; forcing a reality projected through propaganda peep-holes; distracted by directed reaction to reflected chaos..,

"What?"

“Look it up.”

So you google confusion and wikipedia assures you and you’re ready for another day where an existential crisis becomes an existential threat, hope’s downed by drones; and the panel of experts discuss the dangers and warn against morality and ethics over profit while featuring Banger Bros’ Butt-Fest 35, on Animal Planet.., during the dinner hour.

“Fucking kids are watching!”

But telecom tyrant Vexicon has cut the juice and you’re left stranded in the dark searching for ransom demands to secure your sense of security begging for more than the benefits of Dr. Wong’s over-the-counter pseudo-sanity supplements  –  taken, at least, as needed.

Trying to maintain, already feeling the loss; MSNBC, Fox News, CNN and the comic relief of Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond and The 700 Club, how will you make sense of the world now. That’s when you’re forced outside to look for clues – maybe in the mail - and that’s when you find the dead body. And that’s when you become I and I can’t deal with this bullshit right now. I’m missing my shows.

I think I should call the cops then quickly reconsider; that would just make matters worse and then there’s the stash next to the remote on the coffee table - a minor misdemeanor that could get you shot dead and destroy your credit score; so decide on the landlord instead – already enough dead bodies for one day I think and therefore I am – am pissed-off the way this day is shaping up – wishing things were back to the way they were with desperation willing to surrender to the way things are including promises of retroactive glee and a momentary drop in gas prices.

Then I notice a little man in a dark-blue suit and shiny shoes trolling outside the complex. I’d seen him earlier lurking in the shadows by the dumpsters when I answered some salvation solicitor’s, thinking it was Papa Papa Pizza, knock on the door; and here he is again. I now recognize him from interviews on CNBC; it’s Insane Capital’s, Lord – don’t call me Lloyd - Blankhart, a timeless bitch-banker known for destroying neighborhoods for profit while robbing the old and disabled for fun as he was no good at golf, now circling my neighborhood.

But fuck that cause then I see it, can’t believe it, how lucky could I be, there it was the Vexicon Van just twenty yards away.

I yell and he pretends not to hear. So I go to run but trip over the dead body and bang my head and before I lose consciousness I remember I need to call the landlord but can’t – bamboozled by bundled schemes of convenient dreams - that too is covered by Vexicon. As I think about the discontinued limited-edition something I wanted to buy off HSN - jacked-up then slashed - my phone slips from my hand, head filling with deafening silence.., I’ve been discontinued.., and fade to black.

Fucking limited-edition, man; and what about the pizza?

I wake up on a gurney in a really white room my head spinning and worry I’m in some conventionally unconventional perfume commercial or beyond; transported through to a promotional realm void of critical thought. Naked ladies dance across the ceiling as I’m taken by an appealing notion that if I send in five “easy” payments of forty dollars and pay for separate shipping and handling I can get one-hundred dollars of value for free until the offer expires but when does it expire as I wonder if I’d already expired.., or ever existed.., an understanding whose supporting science is conceptually compromised by the behavior of the sub-atomic particles of lactose-intolerant lab rats stuck in a paradox..,nothing left but product build-up.

I consume therefore I am.., I think, validated by massive debt, and the sound of approaching footsteps. The bondage becomes apparent when I try and shift my position on the gurney to see who or what was there in the room with me. Strapped-in like some walk-on-the-wild-side fetish freak on Mother’s Day, I can’t budge.

I stare at the white ceiling with exposed long flickering fluorescent tubes and hear;

“Steve McNaught?”

The room’s acoustics serves to confuse as the question reverberates bouncing off empty walls - along with a bit of my mind carried and modulated by the flickering fluorescents; I’m jonsin’ for a pipe-full of day-glo..,
 
“Steve McNaught?”

The source is obscured and with no visual confirmation - could be a hallucination. Should I respond? Can’t trust anyone, as I’ve learned from daytime T.V. drama and evening editorial; especially hallucinations and those that would have you restrained; don’t tell them shit, you don’t know who they are.,

“Steve McNaught?”

“Yes?” Damn I’ve revealed too much, I thought I said don’t say shit, this guy is clever, at least persistent I think as the source is revealed and I recognize the guy – it’s the driver of the Vexicon Van with a name tag that reads Floyd perfectly placed on professionally starched and creased black coveralls with an obvious red Nike logo. The worn leather creaks as Floyd loosens the straps, also embossed with a Nike logo, and now I can move enough to see the dead body is here in the room, also strapped to the max, lying motionless on a neighboring gurney - branded with a Nike logo.

“Are you Steve McNaught?”

“Who’s asking?” I can be clever too.

Floyd calculating and too calmly responds;

“I’m sorry. Let me introduce myself. My name is Jamie.”

So Floyd is not Floyd - like the coveralls just a cover.

“And you are Steve McNaught ‘a-k-a’ Cutting Ed – is that correct?”

“It’s not necessarily wrong.” Mind-freezing revelations leaving a sense of naked vulnerability – over exposed. He knew too much -  too much info making me dizzy was the last thing I remember forgetting before I forgot to remember what I now apparently could’t afford to  forget - to call in response to a commercial fronted by Ponzi from Happier Daze enlightening me and many improperly treated insomniacs to a secret once in a lifetime investment offer that I need to act on before I think in order to secure my retirement years from mental asylum-like nursing homes which turns out to be an investment in an industry group representing.., mental asylum-like nursing homes.