LITMIR.BIZ

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of bitches, too focused on being crazy sons of bitches to recognize they were crazy sons of bitches. No. Not me. I would fight the good fight. History will teach me. Heed the past. Diverse and righteous be the future.

      He sat down again, watched me after the speech. At last he spoke in a human tone. His intentions, he confided, were to center this new religion, science, construct or what have you around a very certain individual. Until I’d heard him say this I hadn’t realized he was serious about acting on these crazy lectures of his. My heart felt gripped by an icy fear of paralysis. Would the flames of justice be strong enough in my heart to thaw the icy grip, to expel my fear of impotency in the face of something so grand a force? I held my breath, ready to breathe my dragon fire on him.

      “I want this person of specific interest,” he said, “to be you.”

      My dragon breath fizzled into a sigh. The icy grip melted, as if someone had just read me a love poem.

      “Me?” I questioned.

      “You. Yes. You have shown the proper elements necessary in your personality tests I’ve administered at the Impusendeum. You show great promise to be a central unifying force.”

      This shocked me, and I didn’t know what to think.

      “And you will get a raise of five dollars an hour.”

      “Ok.”

      ***

      When I left his office, after having signed certain weird forms in front of a squawky lawyer, I felt somewhat rejuvenated. At first my thoughts were of how beautiful the world would be if I were the center deity. People would finally understand. Then I thought, no, this is crazy. No one will ever fall into a construct based around me. But a five dollar raise. That was something else.

      The strangest thing about it all was that he had asked no action on my part. No questions regarding my personal life (which seemed a must), no further scheduling, not even a photo shoot for some pro-Joe propaganda. In fact he’d gotten rid of me as quickly as I had finished signing the last document.

      What do you think about that? Well? This isn’t a fucking rhetorical question. I’m asking you, Stag Ropehorn. What do you think about that?

      “Well, sir, I suppose that seemed a great honor,” said Stag Ropehorn.

      Ha! Listen to that. Placating scum bitch. Listen to you! You “suppose” it “seemed” a great honor. Ain’t that the downright truth, if not through a passive aggressive filter.

      My sentiments exactly, Stag. How could anyone not be flattered? At the very least flattered. This man with immense financial power, reputedly something too magical to be considered a wizard, was offering me the grand seat in a utopia. I was to dictate the standard of the world through nothing more than my history, my presence, my essence. Do you fully understand what he was offering me? These are not your filthy poetic devices I’m using to convey a smaller fish. This is the real big fish! This is actually what he promised me. Damn it, don’t you get it? In those thirty minutes I was promised to be the center of the world’s new religion, the new science, the new relative construct. I was the fresh slate, baby!

      “Yes, sir. You were promised to be worshipped. I would be flattered, too.”

      Said Stag Ropehorn.

      You little fuck. How dare you hammer this into the wrong hole. It wasn’t about worship. Is that what you think? Then no wonder you keep throwing out that word flattery. This is beyond the ego. This was the new square one. Me, the new beginning. I would be the one essence, the one mindset, the one definition into which everyone would get orientated. Let me ask you. Do you worship your id? Do you?

      “No, sir.”

      Said Stag Ropehorn.

      You don’t worship the fact that you need to eat food to keep alive, that you need to sleep to keep sane. You don’t worship these things. You can’t. You live these things. And that’s what I’m apparently failing to convey to the likes of you. I am what would become the norm, the id, the standard, the fucking indoctrinated circumstances of everyday function. Me. All of me. They chose me!

      “Sir, please stop yelling.”

      How can I not stop yelling? You’re looking at me like a sheep that’s about to be beaten with a stick.

      “I don’t mean to. It’s just. I don’t understand.”

      Exactly. You don’t understand, Stag. But that’s not a concern right now. Maybe, in time, your mind will wrap around it, consume it, instead of mutilating it.

      Where was I? Yes. Start a new paragraph. And quit shivering.

      Egad. Why won’t your hands stop shaking? Are the cuffs on too tight? What the hell’s the matter? Ok. We can stop for the day. But, hey. What did I name this chapter? Romance? Bah. Didn’t even get there, did we now? Well, I suppose it shows where my thoughts were at the start of this dictation. But isn’t that just like the story? To get in the way of all these preconceived notions. Fine. Let’s take a break.

      Chapter 3: (Transcribed from tape-recording)

      Joe: Couldn’t sleep. Watching Stag Ropehorn breathe is nauseating me. I suppose this will be chapter three. I’m having a late night snack with someone. A guest. What’s your name, beautiful?

      Unknown: (female voice, muffled reply, sounds like a hand cupping the microphone)

      Joe: Good name. You know that is one of the Greek muses, right? Zeus’s daughter, right? The one for comedy, I believe. Did you know that? You’re shaking your head no. That’s not very audible.

      Unknown: No.

      Joe: Thanks. Try to remember it is our spoken words that will be immortal. Not the actions herein. Do you understand this?

      Unknown: Yes.

      Joe: Do you really?

      Unknown: Yes.

      Joe: Please. Enjoy some of the strawberries and pound cake I have provided. Can you describe these items? Their taste, their texture, the way the juice bubbles out of the corner of your mouth when you chew them because you want to keep the taste at the tip of your tongue. Well go on. Say something.

      Unknown: Thank you for the food.

      Joe: No. Not that. Say something about the food. Let me hear you describe the food.

      Unknown: The pound cake is fluffy. The strawberries are barely ripe. A little tart.

      Joe: A little tart? Ha! (forty-three seconds of violent laughter) Very good choice of words. Do you know why I’m recording this?

      Unknown: People are into all types of things. So long as it isn’t a camcorder.

      Joe: Certainly. You aren’t much one for words, are you? Please, feel free to use as many words as you want. I want vivid descriptions, you understand? Now. Describe me.

      Unknown: You’re average height. You have broad shoulders. You have a beard.

      Joe: Stop, stop. What kind of beard do I have, hm? Don’t do that with your lips, you look like a retarded gopher. Please describe my beard. Is it a clean beard? Well?

      Unknown: It looks a little unkempt.

      Joe: Unkempt. Wooie. Pulling out all the stops, aren’t you now? I like it. You may have a vocabulary somewhere in there. Go on.

      Unknown: About the beard?

      Joe: Yes.

      Unknown: (deep breath) It’s gray. Looks like goat fur. Greasy.

      Joe: Goat fur?

      Unknown: I grew up on a plantation. We had

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