The Profane Parables and Other Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah, 3

The Profane Parables and Nihilistic Narrations by a Perverse Pariah

Offering Occasional Observations of Odd Occurrences

And an Astonishingly Annoying Amount and Application of Alliteration

The following contains explicit language, blatant disregard for social cues and expectations, violent and sexual conduct as well as numerous moral ambiguities. It is also sideways-eight-percent true in all aspects. The reader may recognize a seemingly unreliable amount of foresight in some aspects, and therefore doubt their validity. Well, if this describes you, you’re probably the type of person who sincerely reads Stephanie Meyer books for literary enjoyment. For these reasons, it should be ritualistically recited at bedside to small children, to ensure a future generation full of promising politicians, priests and food service employees.

If you were alive during the 1950’s and lived in the U.S.A., you had it made in the shade and would never wanna blow this joint. World War II; the Greater War Following the Great War Which Had Ended Fourteen Years Prior to the Greater War; World War II, was finally over. The U.S.A. had become the Undisputed Reigning World Champion of the World after a K.O. against its contender and up-and-coming global power, Japan. Then, the U.S.A. K.O.’ed Japan again while it was already K.O’ed, teaching it the lesson of O.K. overkill. The resulting publicity proved to be prosperously profitable for the previously parsimonious U.S.A. Uncle Sam began parading around in sunglasses, buying gold chains and getting face tattoos, a la Mike Tyson. 

This sudden economic boom was also responsible for a multitude of beneficial, progressive concepts for the country, like suburbia, Hollywood and the Central Artificial-Intelligence Agency. You could also legally name your child something like Ponyboy, and nobody would question it. The 50's truly were the bee’s knees.

The construction of suburbia, also known as the Caucasian Migration, allowed many families to live the "American Lucid Dream." Citizens could now live in similarly constructed houses and worry about little things, like infidelity with the milk man or having the same light-bulb wattage as every other neighbor on the block. The Nuclear Family (named after the boxing match between the U.S.A. and Japan) and suburbia rolled together like a pack of Clove cigarettes and a tee-shirt sleeve. Father figures, also known as “Daddy-O’s” or “Pops,” were majorly responsible for bringing in the dough, smoking pipes, reading the newspaper, muttering about Commies and having an exclusionary armchair in which to do so. Mother figures became known as housewives, and were majorly responsible for raising the children, housekeeping, putting apple-pies window sillsl and taking Quaaludes. The children themselves would come to be known as the Baby Boomers. They were majorly responsible for playing baseball to vicariously live through their Daddy-O’s, saying “bad” when they meant “good” in order to segregate themselves from old people (who were a real drag) and putting nickels in jukeboxes. Times were innocent in 1950's suburbia; excluding the whole Civil Rights thing, which only happened in urban areas, so it didn’t really matter. 

Then Hollywood came along.

Early suburbia was, after all, the junction of economic abundance and materialistic consumerism (in the form of parents, who’d do anything that the neighbors did). The disproportionately high amount of “extensional consumerism” (in the form of children, who’d do anything that a hypnotic, glowing box told them to do) was a match made in heaven for the City of Angels. One contemporary Jones Family bought a television, prompting the neighboring Jones’ (who had to go out to buy more 40W light-bulbs anyways), to buy a television. Rinse and repeat, down the whole street. By the end of the decade, 77% of all Joneses owned at least one television. This allowed Hollywood to sufficiently supply the publically-demanded entertainment industry. The industry, much like WWII, was responsible for many beneficial, progressive concepts for the country; like picture-houses, product commercials and the vain idolization of others facial symmetries.

The whole Nuclear Family (especially all the little Johnny’s, Billy’s, Timmy’s, Sally’s, Debby’s, Linda’s, Susan’s and Ponyboy’s) heavily empathized with the moving, projectiled images appearing on their television. They were very susceptible to its suggestions.

“Coca-Cola is better with ice.” It said.

“Red-leather jackets are hip and bad; just don’t drive James Dean’s hot-rod.” It insinuated.

“Clove cigarettes make you look cool and grown up.” It implied.

"If you cut off Marilyn Monroe's face and folded it in half, it would perfectly align. This is beauty." It informed.

“Elvis just shook his hips, what a Jamf! Don't buy his record!” It insisted.

“Masturbation will grow fur on your palms and leads to an eternity in an incendiary lake.” It propagated with an awkward escalation.

“Smoking or injecting marijuana may lead to overdose and cause you to fatally strangle your Pops using your furry hands.” It ran with itself.

“If your neighbor uses 60W light-bulbs, they may be a Communist.” It commanded.

Unified families across the country would turn on, tune in and drop out of these Dumont deliveries. The television's artificial light had a strange way of dilating their pupils.

Meanwhile, in 1951, Colonel Ron Dulfmint of the CAIA, had just arrived for another day of work. With his steel-grey eyes, he was observing the Subject through a tiny, two-way mirror. Dulfmint was a militant figure, staunchly postured, and arms folded behind the back. His army-fatigue attire was prototypical; olive-drab in color, service medals upon the left breast-pocket and a beret lid. There was, however, an oddity placed upon his lapel in the form of a Monarch Butterfly pin. 

His current accompaniment, Dr. Shrafzshuken, was a meek looking, four-eyed man wearing a lab-coat and writing onto a sizably thick clipboard. The room was no bigger than a janitor’s closet, and all of the recording equipment and intricate wiring made it even more confined. 

From the outside, to the trained eye, it looked like Brothel Bluebird. It was disguised as an abandoned apartment building in the Dealey Plaza section of Dallas. As it's name suggests, it was a place where greasers could pay for a little hanky panky, and then take their "dolls" out for milkshakes and roller-skates. Brothel Bluebird was just that, and had no history of mob affiliations or violence. Was it still illegal? Absolutely. But, hey, as long as it's a controlled environment, "don't ask, don't tell." This policy best explains the “temporary” vacancy of Room 12. 

P. Marty Bawswald, A.K.A. The Subject, was currently in this room. He was recently reported missing, and "P." was an abbreviation of "Ponyboy."

His disappearance was the result of force of habit, paradoxically meeting random chance.

The Subject frequently visited Brothel Bluebird, and went through their twelve-room selection like clockwork. All twelve prostitutes were on a first name basis with him. One day, about two weeks ago, the Subject paid the Pimp for entrance to Room 12. This was Sandy's room. Unbeknownst to the Pimp, who had just given the Subject the key to Room 12, Sandy didn’t show up for work that day (or any day since, incidentally). The Pimp was later approached by a staunchly postured man with steel-grey eyes. The man handed the Pimp $2,000 and told him not to use Room 12 for two weeks. It wasn’t a suggestion or an implication, it was just a candid command. The Pimp, who feared the fuzz, decided it best to re-advertise Brothel Bluebird as an eleven-room venue for the following fortnight.

The Subject, meanwhile, was hurriedly pacing back and forth inside of Room 12. Soaking wet, shivering and slouching with exhaustion, his atomized breath was visible in the artificially chilled room. Dr. Shrafzshuken had made all kinds of extensions between the Room and the janitor’s closet/science lab. In addition to the thermostat, there was the Water Sprayer, a fire hose used for spraying the Subject after his first, involuntary daily dose of drugs. Then there was the Water Tank, a water-tank used to submerge the Subject and induce sensory deprivation, after his second, involuntary daily dose of drugs. Next to that was the Water-Boarding Bench, a jerry-rigged bench used to induce the sensation of drowning after his third, involuntary daily dose of drugs. Loose wiring, leading to the intercom system and other facilities, drooped across the ceiling like streamers of surveillance. It was all quite impressive and likely well funded.

“Dulfmint may handle zee Subject, but I’m zee real maztermind behind this,” the Doctors ego told itself.

"When was the last dosage?” Col. Ron Dulfmint, CAIA, asked the German Doctor.

“Noon. Three 'ourz ago.”

“Understood. Administer another dose.”

The Doctor leaned towards the microphone.“Subject, approach zee mirror,” the words calmly emanated into Room 12.

“What’s up Doc? Rum talk! Rum talk! Rum talk!” the Subject maniacally sputtered out.

The Subject looked back and forth with a rapid, dazed motion. His jaw was compulsively moving, as if mouthing words or chewing. He walked towards the mirror and dazedly gazed at his reflection. His eyes were mostly all pupils, and the past two weeks left no resemblance of P. Marty Bawswald, even to P. Marty Bawswald, whoever P. Marty Bawswald was. The reflection in the mirror was the Subject.

On the other side of the mirror, Col. Ron Dulfmint looked into the eyes of his Subject as he injected the needle into his arm through the hidden slot. There was a marijuana extract in this one, in addition to the thirty-six doses of LSD and twenty-four doses of mescaline administered three hours earlier.

It was a satisfying process, Col. Ron Dulfmint thought, destroying egos and remolding new ones with water-based drugs and torture methods. It was like watching a caterpillar metamorphosize into a cocoon amidst a tsunami. It would eventually evolve into a beautiful butterfly, flapping its wings and causing another tsunami somewhere else. It had taken two weeks, and would take another few years before this butter could fly, but the most difficult part was finished. The cocoon was formulated, and Col. Ron Dulfmint might have appeared proud, if he ever expressed any emotion.

“Subject,” Col. Ron Dulfmint took the microphone.

Through the glass, The Subject’s second face went from oblivious to petrified. He began to cry at his reflection. The marijuana extract kicked in, and the whites of his eyes reddened around the giant black voids of pupils. He looked to be on the verge of a marijuana overdose, as well as possibly possessed after hearing the voice. Col. Ron Dulfmint had done all of the physical and psychological “research” that the Agency would consider tangible. This was usually accomplished with his strong, overpowering, disarming, ostracizing, malicious and yelling presence. Shrafzshuken was just there to take notes and apply knowledge acquired from his former job. His old boss was some guy who infamously shaved his mustache to be able to fit his face into  gas mask.

“Suspend yourself upside down in the air, using the ceiling wires, and let the blood rush to your head until you’re unconscious. I want you to repeat what we talked about while you're hanging,” Dulfmint's words had the tone of a reservedly angry Pops-figure. You'd of thought the Subject had been caught sitting in his armchair.

The Subject clumsily climbed on top of the Water Tank and forcefully threshed at the overhanging wires, apathetic to the risk of fatal electrocution.

“Now, why would you tell him to do that?” The Doc asked as the intercom connection was pulled out.

“Primarily because he will, and partially because our project is finished. It’s all to be taken down by midnight anyways. Two weeks is two weeks. A fortnight's a fortnight, ain't that right, ain't that right? After a fortnight, the Subject's not tight." He stroked the butterfly pin on his lapel.

“But what about putting him to sleep?”

“I’d prefer to do that more personally.” Col. Ron Dulfmint, CAIC, said leaving the government-funded janitors closet/Nazi science lab.

The Colonel walked around Brothel Bluebirds hallway and unlocked Room 12. After twisting and tying his right leg, The Subject somehow successfully did as commanded. He was currently hanging upside down, slightly moving in the motion of a pendulum. How he defied physics in order to do this is a whole ‘nother conspiracy.

“Rum Talk. Eleven. Twenty-Two. Sixty-Three. Subject. Rum Talk. Eleven. Twenty-two. Sixty-Three. Subject.” The Subject was happily repeating as his reddening forehead began to match his stoned eyes.

Col. Ron Dulfmint snapped his fingers. The Subject immediately fell unconscious.

The next afternoon, P. Marty Bawswald woke up half-naked in a Dallas alleyway. He had a scalp-splitting headache, and couldn’t seem to recollect any of the night’s events. He last remembered going to see Sandy, but that was about it. Oh well, he thought, getting drugged and robbed at an urban whorehouse during the 1950's was like getting sprayed with a fire-hose for using the wrong water fountain. It just came with the territory. Something about that analogy was unreasonably unsettling for him. He couldn't quite figure out why, but it wasn't related to the injustices of racial segregation. He shrugged it off and walked to the nearest five and ten store to buy some new threads. While browsing, he remembered a film he watched at the picture-house the previous week, and bought a red leather jacket. It was bad.

Meanwhile, about sixty years in the future, across the country in the Forbesburgh suburb of Sandspot, Pennsylvania, was I, your Nihilistic Narrator. It was a drab Sunday morning, and nothing exciting, extraordinary or extravagant was happening throughout the town, with the exception of the bars opening. I started this morning like any other, following the habitual ritual; Not waking up as a result not sleeping, walking to Koff’s Tobacco Outlet (you could practically purchase being cool and grown up here for around $7.00 a pop.), waving to the middle-schoolers waiting at the bus-stop while promoting the whimsical benefit of cigarettes, returning home and getting dressed. Then I’d do the same things as everybody else on the block, like drinking orange blood and watching the news on television, while simultaneously texting and web-browsing. Suburbia became modern.

The reporter on the first screen was in an interactive news type of situation, indicative by his constant updates via ear-piece, the constant movement of his hands and the on-location shoddiness of the cameraman. The large, neon-colored “BREAKING NEWS!” box and the screen-length banner reading “LIVE!!!” also slightly hinted towards this inference as well. I’d never seen the reporter on this network before. His eyes actually smiled with the rest his face, leading me to believe that he was a Sunday driver in the art of lying. He was, reportedly, in between the crossfire of the S.W.A.T. team and a domestic terrorist unit known as “Nothing.” After the sounds of automatic-gunshots were heard, and people were seen falling to the ground, the network cut to commercial. I divided roughly ¼ of my attention to this.

The text sender on the second screen was in a hyper-manic, sadomasochistic type of situation. This was indicative by the text message I received on my cell phone (a Pomegranate mePhone 12 with a retina-vision lens camera, a retina-scan security system, twelve 9Mm-bullet chambers and a free year’s subscription to Brazzers). Using the same device, I also learned the moral of not entering the “locals” section of Brazzers.com, also known as The Dark Side of The Internet. I concentrated about 2/4s of my attention to these cyber bombardments as well. The remaining ¼ was focused on a cigarette.

“If you have pimples, nobody will want to fuck you. If you have pimples, I could cut your face off, fold it in half, and it wouldn’t perfectly align. Buy this cream, ugly.” The first screen said, in the form of a large-breasted, blonde woman wearing a bikini. She was well known on the TV for her large breasts (with, to a lesser extent, her artistic acting ambitions) and symmetrical face.

I worriedly touched a Herpe upon my upper lip. Surely this wasn’t the cause of my dry spell!

“Lol I just 8 his *poop emoji* now hes wipping me w/ the wip do u want 2 join? *wink emoji*” was deciphered as it appeared on the second screen. Her porn-page profile-picture wasn’t exactly attractive in the symmetrical face kind of way, or the large-breasted blonde kind of way, but a few missing teeth was an even trade. She only lived across the bridge in Blairton.

“Wtf hmu whenever he leaves nd u brush ur teeth nd do u mind if I have a herpe?” I thumbed onto the phone’s surface. My thoughts were overcastted by the television;

“Hey ugly, it’s me again, did you know that you might be stupid too? If you don’t drive a Ford truck, voted #1 in performance and #12 in safety among drivers, you’re a fucking moron! We’ll say it again! You’re a fucking moron! Go out and buy one now you pizza-faced parochial! Here’s our logo! (With the logo of Forbesburgh Frost Lager, our sponsor)” The first screen said in the form of a shirtless, anatomically-symmetrical man who was wearing blue jeans and performing some laborious task while drinking a glistening, glass bottle of beer. It was complete with an American flag background and a slide-guitar solo. I had the sudden urge to disregard the safety of my imaginary, suburban wife and child by purchasing a Ford. #12 in safety? Yolo. Plus they had a dope looking logo. My phone buzzed, vibrating against my flaccid genitals;

“K np an no idc as long as ur hung man r u hung lol???,” the second screen inauspiciously said.

“Im not hung like a horse, horses are hung like me bae.” I replied, still talking with my thumbs as opposed to with my tongue. I was just like every other neighbor on the block. The television interrupted again;

“You thought I’d go away that easily? You ugly, stupid asshole! Yup, I’d be feeling pretty terrible right now if I were you too! You know what’ll make you feel better? Forbesburgh Frost Lager! Drink it at the club with your crew and dap each other up during the Phantoms game! Drink it at the barbeque with your bros and pat each other’s backs while admiring the roasting wieners! Drink it every afternoon during the weekdays and high-five your wife’s face with your fist! Why settle with being an ugly, stupid asshole, when you could be an ugly, stupid, drunken asshole!” Phone vibrates against my semi-erect genitals;

“K i was jw, you wanna do a pic4pic?”

“Lol no im a ugly stupid drunk u don’t wanna c my face til we meet.”

“Awe, cum on bro *winky emoji*” The fraternal term “bro” seemed strange, coming from the thumbs of a female. The television began again, now shouting;

“Yo, you ugly, stupid drunken asshole?! I bet right now, at this very moment, you’re wondering how your miserable ass should commit suicide! Hanging? That’s too conservative. Wrist-slicing? Too messy. Self-inflicted gunshot wound? Correctamundo, asshole! Unfortunately, this is hard to do during a time of increased gun restriction. If you vote for upcoming Presidential candidate Ted Nugent, he’ll not only restore the second amendment back to its original glory, but assign a mandatory revolver with one bullet in every American home for emergency suicides. Did you know that the Founding Fathers; George Washington, Ted Nugent and Benjamin Franklin used M-16’s to defeat the Confederacy whenever they originally wrote the Constitution, or that Earnest Hemmingway shot himself? Ted Nugent also plays the guitar! *slide guitar solo* Vote Nugent 2016 and kill yourself, asshole!” The first screen said.

I had the sudden urge to scrub my pimples away, in order to work up enough self-confidence to buy a Ford truck from a persuasive car salesman with large teeth. Then, I wanted to get wasted and drive the truck off of what was called “Make-Out Point” back in the fifties (kids nowadays called it “Pregnancy Peak”), effectively killing myself. The phone vibrated against my fully-erect genitals;

“Heiii sexi heres a pic of me now i want 1 of u unless ur not really hung man.”

That was the second time she said “hung man…” to me… Hung man.” Like being a well-hung man, right? That’s pretty straightforward? But then there was also the “bro…” It couldn’t of been….

I opened the photo, expecting to see a marginally attractive woman with a few missing teeth. Ideally, she’ll be in a seductive pose. What I actually seen, however, was the bearded face of a flabby bald man, auto-erotically asphyxiating himself. I, your Nihilistic Narrator and Perverse Pariah, had been what the kids were calling “catfished.”

The thumb-spoken “Are you Hung Man?” was actually the tongue-spoken “are you hung, man?” “Man,” in this case, is a slang term in reference to males, similar to “dude,” “guy,” “bro,” or “nigga. “The thumb-spoken version made it seem as if a potentially foreign woman was calling me “man,” using broken English. But the tongue-spoken version revealed it was actually a man just calling me “man.” Slang words can be a confuddling mindfuck .

“Well, if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.” The entire process lasted about three minutes, much like myself during coitus. I reflected on the morning's morals as I deleted the text messages and my web browser history. I didn’t want the CAIA kidnapping me for information, after finding Catfishes asphyxiated corpse and seeing my number in his phone. They were known to do stuff like that from time to time.

I lit a cigarette and redirected the other 2/3rd’s of my attention to the television, looking cool and grown up while watching other people look cool and grown up. The news report came back on. S.W.A.T. teams officially killed all twelve members of the domestic terrorist group known as "Nothing." The group was armed with fully-automatic rifles and was harboring live samples of eBola, believed to be intended to be spread into the public. They also all wore Red AirJordan’s. During the shootout, there were no civilian causalities.

I cut to a different news network. There was breaking news regarding the still-occurring standoff between F.B.I. agents and a foreign terrorist group known as "None." The group was armed with pistols and was believed to have operated a Crystal Meth enterprise. They all wore Air-Jordans and had mullet haircuts. The shootout was cartel related, and 4 agents were fatally wounded.

A different network didn’t talk about the shootout at all, instead focusing its journalistic outreach to a different demographic; stupid people. 

Their headlining story was a report on the pregnancy of a blonde woman well known for her large breasts and, to a lesser extent, her acting. This particular news network won the ratings war that day. 

2010’s Suburbia was innocent times. 

The End