“You know, this is why Gandhi said you shouldn’t have close friends.  Loyalty can lead you into wrong doing.”
            
“Uh huh.”
            
“Of course, George Orwell said, ‘The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty.’”
            
“That‘s what he told me.”
            
“And Ambrose Bierce defined being obstinate as ‘inaccessible to the truth,’ so I would certainly hate to be that since this might truly be an opportunity to have fun.”
             
“Yeah.”
             
“Though he also said opportunity is ‘a favorable occasion for grasping a disappointment.’”
             
“Which means you’ve got a book of quotations on hand and like an asshole you‘re flipping through it reading at random to sound like some fucking genius.”
             
“Maybe.”
             
“Well, I’ll bet anything it doesn’t have what my Uncle Jimmie used to  say.”
            
“What’s that?”
          
“‘There’s no wrong time for a good time.’”
             
And that’s how Sid Telmer convinced me to go out this Halloween.  It wasn’t much of a hard sell really, I just felt like fucking with him a bit.  I love Halloween.  It’s the only time of the year you can watch people acting the way they want others to see them.  There goes a hero, there goes a superhero, I’m sexy, I’m clever, I’m very good at making costumes, all that shit.  In a sense, it’s the best holiday there is because people can pretend to be what they never really feel like; and better still, a person can show off their personality more grandly than usual.  
              
Suffice it to say, after our little chat I hung up the phone, put on some clothes (it’s my apartment, I’ll walk around naked as much as I like thank you very much old lady across the alley who shouldn‘t be peeping through my windows anyway -- ya get a good look at a healthy dick that hasn‘t decayed to pigeon grey and can only hang flaccid like your living dead husband you withered old cunt?), and headed to meet Sid.  We downed a few pints at the Village before making our way to the yellow line.  
             
We smuggled a fifth of bourbon onto the train, which is far easier than anyone cares to admit because everyone likes to think ‘Hey, how badass is this, I’m drinking on the El,’ and settled in to the trip downtown.  Sid and I planned to meet up with Toby Jackson, Pete Donovan, and Willie “Yodel-In-Beaver” Alva in Roger’s Park.  A car would’ve been quicker, however, riding the El into and around the city is something of a tradition for Sid and myself.  
             
The deeper the train stabs into the heart of the city the more it fills with hellish and hookerish delights.  Demons of all shapes and sizes crowd the compartment.  Seven Hunter Thompsons muttering to each other at one end of the car.  An abundance of zombies shamble on and off at the subway stations.  Eventually every genus of vampire is glimpsed from the glittery uber-romantics to the rat like classics.  Fans turned to athletes, a Beetlejuice, gangsters, celebrity slashers, sex machines of the literal and figurative variety, the ever constant possibility that isn’t the best hobo costume in the world it’s an actual bindlestiff -- it‘s a trip through Halloween.  
             
We made it to Jackson Ave. when a pic from Toby prompted us to head for Roger’s Park.  It featured a lineup of young women dressed as nuns whom no convent would ever deny admittance, so slutty were they and clearly in need of saving.  We got off and headed up to the street to grab a taxi. However, as we stood at the corner trying to hail a cab a strange scene unfolded across from us.  
              
A crowd was forming, people cheering.  Sid and I craned our heads to see what was going on. It looked like some kind of performance. A man walked quickly down the street, periodically grabbing hold of pedestrians then marching away as fast as he could without actually running.  The people he passed immediately started to stagger, clutching at themselves and screaming in terror.  One by one they collapsed on the sidewalk dark pools forming around them. The man carried on.  No one tried to stop him.  Some even applauded.  The man crossed the street, and we watched him pass by, the act seeming to continue, as he slipped down into the subway.  A woman stumbled over to us clutching her side, pleading for help, and Sid couldn’t avoid laughing, “She is really selling it.”  The woman fell at his feet, her eyes going dull.  
              
“Helluvan act,” I said.  Then we grabbed a cab and went to the party.
              
47 people died that night.  The man was never caught, despite several witnesses, all of whom gave conflicting descriptions.  And I suspect I’ll be telling this story till the day I die.  It just goes to show you the importance of timing.

Another chance to rock hard, melting eyes and breaking skulls.  You ain't
never heard anything like this, I guarantee.  Crank that volume all the way
up!  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I4Cgs5ER8fY

The first letter came on a Tuesday.  I don't know why I remember that, but I do.  It's funny the things you remember.  It arrived in March, close on the end of February.  Or maybe it was February, right near the end.  I can't be sure though I know it came on a Tuesday.  Why would I remember that above the month?  Like I said, funny.  

Anyway, the first letter didn't seem like anything at all, just a plain manila envelope.  In fact, I don't think I even opened it for about a day or two.  I'm not really too diligent when it comes to snail mail.  I tend to toss it on the coffee table, rifle through for bills, and ignore the rest.  I kept meaning to investigate the manila envelope.  However, junk mail tends to transmute in my imagination into something brilliant and opening it is always what makes it dull, a kind of Rorschach Schrodinger's Box. So I put off disappointment as long as possible.
 
One afternoon, ignoring commercials, I picked up the manila envelope.  Tearing it open I found a series of black and white photos inside.  Trying to remember if I'd ordered any prints recently, I cycled through them.  The photos showed a wooden gallows complete with a figure hanging, presumably dead or dying, from them.  The hanging looked to be taking place in a large, grimly lit concrete room.  Each photo in the series moved closer to the hung until a face became clear.  Me.  The photos showed me, hung, eyes bulging out of my skull, tongue protruding.  One even showed signs of shit dribbling out a pant leg. 
  
I couldn't help laughing.  Morbid, sure, but one hell of a prank.  Whoever'd photoshopped the pics had done an amazing job.  I figured whoever did them used black and white to help hide any traces of manipulation, though the macabre atmosphere certainly popped in dichromatic tones.  After all, I wasn't dead.  I certainly didn't remember being hung at any point in time.
 
My first suspicions ran to my roommate Darrel.  We prank each other from time to time.  Once, I turned the locks in his bedroom door around so that when he went to sleep I could lock him in from the outside.  In retribution he put a wooden case with a lock around the toilet paper, and I responded by making a sphere out of several hundred rubber bands with his cellphone in the center.  But he adamantly refused to admit to the letter.  I didn't believe him, of course, and even went so far as to commend his acting chops.  However, he consistently pleaded ignorance.  I didn't really start to believe him till he took out his phone and started calling around to see which of our friends might have produced the photos.
 
Darrel said, "This thing is fucked up, and I want to know who sent it... if only to congratulate them."  
  
We examined the envelope closely.  No return address.  No postmark. Whoever sent the pictures seemed to have delivered them his or her self.  So naturally we decided it had to be someone we knew.  No one confessed, but Darrel and I shrugged it off, figuring eventually someone would admit -- drunk at a party -- to the deed.  I said, "Whoever did this wants me to sweat it a bit."  So we hung (no pun intended) the best photo on the fridge:  a shot where the face is clearly mine but the whole body, noose, and most of the gallows are in view.  We showed it to guests, who laughed or shivered or both, and briefly, from time to time, speculated on its origins.  The pictures turned into a conversation starter.  Darrel even used them as an incentive to get some girls back to our place, "You won't believe what he got in the mail..." 
  
But overall we ignored them... until the second letter arrived.  
 
Once again a series of black and white photos in a plain manila envelope.  No return address.  No postmark.  The only difference was this time, when I saw it, I tore it open first thing.  The glossy set showed a dark room.  A body lay in a ring of light.  Several small objects appeared to protrude from the corpse.  I flipped through the photos, jumping to where the details became clearer.  There I lay, according to the picture, in a pool of blood.  The protuberances resembled screwdrivers and kitchen knives.  Close ups revealed mutilations implying chunks carved out of me.  I was about to shake my head with a grin when I looked at the face. I still assumed someone was photoshopping my features into place, and this recent series was simply the result of someone pushing things further.  Gleefully having gotten away with the gag, whichever of our friends was doing this had decided to go the extra mile.  And why not?  I would.  However, the look on the face, from what little was left of it, came screaming into my mind igniting the terror anyone dying like that must feel. 
 
When Darrel got back from work I was three whiskeys into the night.  I pointed him to the new photos.  They inspired him to join me in a drink, and we made the phone rounds again.  Still no one confessed, and I started getting angry.  
  
Had I done something to someone?  If so, tell me.  That way we can settle whatever I did, and this could stop.  But no one admitted to anything.  
 
We took the photo off the fridge.  I wanted to throw the whole Hanging out, however, Darrel said, "In case this gets too weird, we'll need them for proof."  I asked if he meant as evidence for the police, and he said, "I don't think it'll get that far, but let's just be prepared."  
 
I spent the next few days brooding.  Over the weekend I refused to hang out with anyone.  I figured, "Fuck 'em.  No one wants to be honest -- I don't care.  I don't need a goddamn one of them."  Gradually, my temper cooled.  Darrel took me out for a night of relaxation.  Translation:  he paid for a lot of booze.  I vaguely remember stumbling home, feeling calm for the first time in a week, and yelling to the empty streets, "Whatever.  I don't give a shit.  Send all the pictures you want, pussy ass motherfucker!"  
 
The next morning a manila envelope hung tacked to our door.  The previous two had arrived in our mailbox.  After seeing the new series, in which I am burned at the stake, Darrel and I questioned everyone in the building.  Again, no one admitted to anything, and frankly, we found it hard to believe our neighbors could be the culprits.  
  
We went to the police who listened attentively but left us feeling like we'd've done just as well to send the pictures to a TV detective.  Two days later the cop in charge of my case phoned to say they'd gotten no leads, no clues from the photos or envelope.  He assured me he'd stick with it, though by the sound of his voice he didn't seem confident.  
 
Over the next several weeks I received more envelopes.  Besides being hung, mutilated, and burned alive, I now possessed photos of me being vivisected, drowned in a tank, bludgeoned, impaled, and crushed by some improvised press.  I stopped going to work, and the photos still came.  I stopped going outside, and the photos still came.  I barely left my bedroom, and the photos still came.  
  
At one point Darrel bought a set of small cameras he hung over our front door and by the mailboxes.  He recorded around the clock expecting to catch some glimpse of the perpetrator.  He came into my bedroom one day, carrying his laptop, a smile on his face.   "Got the fucker," he said, and showed me footage from the cameras.  
  
A tall, slender figure in a suit entered the building.  He seemed to have a key and walked right in, up the stairs to our apartment door. There he tacked a fresh envelope in place then left.  The low quality of the recording didn't provide us with distinct features.  In fact, the graininess of the image made him all the more skeletal.  He didn't resemble anyone we knew which was little comfort to me.  
 
Darrel was ecstatic, glad to have something for the cops.  I just wanted to see the latest series.  At first, Darrel refused, but I pushed the issue, insisting I had to know.  Reluctantly, Darrel gave me the envelope.  "I didn't open it.  I don't want to see them."  Inside a set of pictures showed me stripped naked and strung up by my arms.  Flipping through the pictures showed a whip snapping out of the dark as someone in the shadows, too dim to be in view, cracked a cat-o-nine tails across my back.  But inside was also a sheet of paper, a rough lay out of our apartment neatly sketched on it. At certain points small red dots marked locations throughout the apartment.  
  
Using the sketch as a map, I went to where one of the dots indicated and searching found a small camera hidden in a bookshelf.  Going through the whole apartment, I found several more tiny cameras. Darrel couldn't believe it, whereas I... accepted it.  
  
We reported it all to the police, who once again promised to do everything within their power and left me feeling hopeless.  Darrel did his best to cheer me up, which I suspected was as much for his benefit as my own, but it did no good for either of us.  
  
I went to bed but didn't really sleep.  I just sort of stared until the next day.  In the morning I was only mildly surprised to find a letter on the coffee table. In clean, elegant calligraphy it bore my name, so I opened the crisp white envelope.  It read, 
  
"Dear Mr. Christoff, 
 
Observing your reactions has been a most enjoyable experience.  For the time being the audience is satisfied, however, if their desires should run otherwise our representative will be along to collect you for a live performance.  
  
Sincerely,
P.
 
P.S.  Please involve the police no further as it will be futile.  In addition, the waste is irritating.  We prefer spending our resources bringing you back."

Technorati claim token N5DKV4NRG9KJ

It's time to settle things... reasonably... "because nobody else has got the biscuits!" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unfhVGstWfM

As many of you know I'm running for president.  For those of you who don't, what the fuck?  This is an important election after all.  33 of the 100 Senate seats are up for grabs as are all 435 seats in the House of Representatives, 13 states are having elections for governor, and to top it all off the Presidency is on the line.  Since I can't occupy all of these open slots without performing some grotesque act of fascism, I'm settling for one office, the Oval Office. 
 
Some people might wonder, "Why so late?  The election is less than a month away."  Think back to 2008.  A scant 24 hours after Barack Obama's election, news channels were already hosting pundits ranting about potential candidates in 2012.  Debates about an election that wouldn't occur for four years steadily sizzled on slow news days until finally only two years remained to rant about the eventual primaries.  For close to a year and a half an intense degree of focus has been put on this year's presidential campaign.  Sure, other stories have stolen the spotlight from time to time (e.g. Casey Anthony, the marriage of Prince William to Catherine Middleton, the NFL and concussions, etc. -- important things) but the focus has always managed to return to the presidency. By now most voters are rolling their eyes at even the smell of political discourse and that's the portion who pay close attention to politics in the first place.  The average citizen has most likely entered a Let's-Get-This-Over-With state of mind.  So, to cut through the static of campaign rhetoric, I've come charging onto the field: a fresh face to foil the monotony and put life back into the body politic.  
 
But what's my plan?  Every candidate is supposed to have one.  These two jokers certainly seem to -- http://www.barackobama.com/economy and http://www.mittromney.com/issues .  As such, I've devised the following scheme for America.  Try and keep up.  
 
 
1.  Fix the Economy.
 
Technically, at this point in the campaign all I really have to say is, "Trust me, I got this."  Part of the reason for that is most people glaze over the second anyone says something like, "Eliminating taxes on dividends would encourage people to buy municipal bonds; and raising taxes on capital gains would prevent shareholders from flipping stocks as well as reduce the lost revenue from the aforementioned tax cut."  
  
Not only do most folks have no idea what I've proposed, but I already hear grumblings through the wi-fi about arrogant intellectual elitism.  Voters want to hear hard luck stories about vague anonymous Americans the candidate claims to have met who exemplify the suffering of a particular demographic.  It makes more sense for me to say, "I know a man in Niles, Illinois who works two jobs to support his family and still doesn't earn enough to buy groceries. He's spiraling into debt just to feed his children.  We, as a nation, can't allow that.  That's why I'm going to make sure he can earn a living by creating jobs which raise our standard of living," than to offer a realistic (realistic in this case being code for boring) explanation of what needs to be done.  As George Orwell once said, "The average man is not directly interested in politics... he wants the current struggles of the world to be translated into a simple story about individuals."
 
So I won't tell you about investing in infrastructure in order to create jobs, taxes for the super rich, closing loopholes in the existing tax code, or creating tariffs on foreign products produced for American manufacturers (taxing companies who have shipped jobs overseas by creating tariffs applied to the goods they import).  I won't mention things like tax credits for auto manufacturers who produce fuel efficient vehicles which can compete pricewise with the Tata Nano (http://consumerguideauto.howstuffworks.com/2012-tata-nano-america.htm).  Or restarting, what I call, Head Above Water Programs like the Federal Writers' Project. 
  
During the New Deal many programs simply kept American's from drowning; and throughout the last four years there's been an insistence from the American people as well as politicians that whatever action is taken should instantly revitalize the economy.  We're looking for the perfect solution when we really need to level off then begin a slow climb to recovery.  It won't happen overnight no matter how much we want that.  So I want to invest in programs which provide jobs for a variety of skills which don't easily find work but exist throughout the United States. People who want to work will apply for them whether they're minimum wage positions picking up trash along the highway or transcribing the oral histories of the elderly at $20 per narrative.  
 
A lot of this will be building off of the successes made so far, but there's still a long way to go.  
 
 
2.  Transparency.
 
Barack Obama once said, "A democracy requires accountability, and accountability requires transparency."  And I agree with that.  However, he failed in some respects to live up to this intention by allowing closed negotiation sessions.  I understand that certain aspects of politics can't be made open to the public.  For reasons of national security some, perhaps even many, of the president's interactions can't be made available to the general population.  That being said, debates over matters such as healthcare reform, in which every American has a vested interest, shouldn't be held behind closed doors.  
  
As president I would be open to dialogue with any party regarding any issue provided those who wished to talk or debate or argue were willing to have all such interactions recorded.  All recordings, save those which constitute matters of national security, will be made available to the public.  Everything goes on file.  And to think it's a strange request is to forget the historical reality and importance of things like the Kennedy and Nixon tapes.
 
 
3.  Healthcare.

Like the economy a simple anecdote is what really matters here.  Telling the story of a sick child, a man crippled on the job, or an elderly woman, all of whom can't afford the care which will turn their lives into a manageable hell rather than the grim slow suffering decay they're already experiencing. 
 
 I shouldn't tell you about a plan that will sound like the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act, otherwise known as Obamacare.  I should terrify you with insinuations of death boards: panels of doctors roaming the halls of hospitals deciding who deserves proper care and who should be left to die. I certainly shouldn't ask you to make sense of the thing yourself  (http://housedocs.house.gov/energycommerce/ppacacon.pdf).  That's a duty best left to people who act without political motivation or financially incentivized bias:  television pundits and politicians.  Senators didn't even read it before voting on the act, so why should you even try to find an objective synopsis before reviling the thing?  No, the best plan here is to cherry pick what aspects of the PPACA sound best, while saying the most politically volatile aspects are bullshit I'll discard in one great sweep of my executive branch... regardless of whether I have the votes in Congress to back any action.  
 
 
4.  Same Sex Marriage.
 
It's here. Get used to it.  

 
5.  Foreign Policy.
 
An interesting thing has been occurring lately.  Willard Mitt Romeny proposes smaller government yet at the same time somehow insists the Middle East is under American management; that Barack Obama is the one responsible, if only in part, though still to a significant degree according to Willard, for the violence occurring there as we speak.  In essence, the president is to have as minimal authority as possible in the his own country but a powerful hand abroad. This invisible Iron Pimp Hand will wrangle China, reign in Iran, cool the climate in the Middle East, and prevent the economic turmoil in Europe from crossing the pond, but in no way can it dictate healthcare reform or financial regulation in its own country.  
 
Based on this the President of the United States is the political equivalent of a blackhole:  somehow massive and small in the same instance.  
  
Foreign Policy is a matter of effective diplomacy.  Overall, under my watch, what matters to the United States and its
citizens will come first, but not at the expense of valued relationships past presidents have carefully established over the years.  
 
See how I craftily made a vague noncommittal statement that both sounds good and offends no one?  That's how you politrick.  Now to threaten Iran and China with some tough talk -- "My Pimp Hand is strong! Test me bitches!  Sanctions and guns motherfuckers!" -- mention helping nations aspire to democracy as opposed to policing the globe, and we're done! 
 
 
6.  Immigration.
 
Let's be honest.  This is the country people flock to when they want to start a better life.  It's been that way since before it became the United States of America.  And we shouldn't discourage that, especially when a large portion of our economy is tied up in immigrant labor.  In addition, as recently as 2010, 28% of all doctorate recipients were non-U.S. citizens (http://www.nsf.gov/statistics/sed/2010/pdf/tab70.pdf).  Fortunately, 69.1%  wanted to remain in the U.S., though that isn't to say they were allowed.  
  
It isn't just unskilled workers we're relying on here.  Computer and engineering jobs are filled by immigrant labor too, and countries like Britain, Australia, Canada, Germany, and France have, in recent years, bent over backward to attract the talent many here refuse to accept for fear of foreign hordes stealing work from hard working Americans.  But we need every hard working able body and mind to make this country strong.  
 
We need a smoother immigration path rather than the one that exists.  That's why I won't support deportation of anyone other than violent criminals; and I'll work to make sure the valid road to citizenship is more readily known, particularly south of the border.  Because seriously, do you think a guy living in Oaxaca is aware of Form N-400, Application for Naturalization?  Or if he is where to get one?
 
 
Wrapping It All Up

These are the particularly hot button issues facing the country.  There are other matters to keep in mind --realities for our soaring elderly population, national security, gun control, and the environment.  However, these six points evoke the most passionate responses from voters.  Therefore, all other issues can get laid by the wayside or at best, tangentially connected to broader topics i.e. tying the environment to economic concerns.  Only the most pressing points deserve attention: how will the economy be strengthened by your mere presence as president; what's in your ipod; can you spin your failure at the debate into a clever quip; etc.
 
It would be easy to boldly state, "I will fix the economy through a series of actions designed to create jobs and stimulate financial growth in all sectors; adjust taxes to reduce the burden on the middle class and low income earners while inspiring the upper class to invest in America.  Along the way I intend to provide affordable healthcare for every
American.  In global affairs, the United States will be regarded as a world leader not a follower.  My immigration reforms will make people feel free to come to this country and call it their own without fear of being labeled Illegal." 

But I wouldn't be saying anything.  Plus, it's verbose.  All I really have to say is, "I can make America great again."  Because until I fail you won't know any better... unless you actually look at what you're being told.

Jane felt the water trembling past her chin, up steadily towards her mouth.  The closer to her lips the closer to her nose and then... her hope the flow might be slacking, soon to a stop, drained.  Her mind turned from possibilities of escape to prayer.  Then, perhaps due to acceptance, her thoughts shifted to other matters.

She thought about her brother Alan.  Jane forgave him for hiding her dolls when he was six.  Though she'd started high school by then, the violation of her room bothered her more than the missing dolls.  She couldn't say why she thought of him first.  Any number of others over the course of her life deserved as much forgiveness for the petty sins clustering in her skull -- any thoughts to keep the rising water level out.  Maybe because the two talked less each year, neither seeing a need for the other the older they got; and there would be no chance to make up the deficit.
 
The water line caused her to turn up her nose bumping it against cold metal.  Nostrils flared clutching at the last airy inch. Her eyes burned in the water's salty sting.  She couldn't say how long the tank had taken to fill, but it wouldn't be much longer till full.  The expansive implication of the simple phrase "it's only a matter of time" struck her.  
 
She wondered who would miss her.  Her parents probably would, though mostly only around the holidays.  Mom always needed a shoulder to cry on, and Dad counted on Jane's routine gift of latest spy novels.  Despite how the relationship ended, for reasons which she saw now as epically petty and pointless, Jane hoped Fred might miss her.  He wouldn't, part of her knew that, but she still hoped. Gloria from work definitely would, although Jane would not miss her.  The nice Indian man at the gas station who sold her cigarettes?
 
Jane snorkeled a final deep breath with her nose.  She didn't know how long it would last.  Probably not long but it just felt right to make the effort.
 
Floating in the tank Jane couldn't help considering, "How hard will it be to replace me?"  She never even pondered if anyone would ever know what happened to her.
 
Staring through the brackish water, Jane tried to make sense of the crowd gathered around the tank.  She hadn't asked for the opportunity, but among the last bubbles she wondered, "Was I entertaining?"