Tuesday, December 9, 2008


Joe sat on an unmarked bench wholly incapable of acknowledging his inability to cope. Crumpled newspapers tumbled across the vacant street and as the breeze shifted, the dated news sources were forced to retreat into an open sewer drain. Joe wanted to be that newspaper.

Rather than dwelling on the matter, Joe decided to embrace the most traditional of calming acts: walking.

After about fifteen minutes, Joe found himself staring at a pole replete with clutter. Everything from bake sales to restaurant ads covered the poll. Most were out of date, even more were disfigured by the elements, but the one that caught Joe's attention was new, bright red and headlined with the phrase "ATTENTION CORPORATE TEAT SUCKING CONSUMERISTAS! Turn around, walk ten paces and listen to the world you live in."

Curious, Joe pursued the matter, unhindered by the fact that he did not know the official length of a pace. After a brief jaunt, he examined his surroundings at a distance he felt comfortable with and eventually arrived at a point of curiosity: a tape recorder was imbedded in a wall. Covered in duct tape and wires, a single button protruded with the word "Play" scrawled below it. Joe pressed it and listened.

My name is Mark Gentric but you will know me as your messiah, your destroyer. The world we know is not as it once was.

Manufacturing, business, products, all these things have accumulated. Storage spaces are currently a premium and centers such as the Goodwill and Salvation Army str overflowing with your filth. I've worked in the redistribution Center for far too long. Watching your shit pass through our doors, day in and day out. Your useless knock knacks, your pop culture icons, your outdated electronics, it makes me sick. why do you need those decorative wooden rooster to fill your house? What purpose does having a shitty fucking theme serve? Why do you have to buy your kids every fucking piece of merchandise slathered with the image of a slutty pop star your daughter shouldn't be looking up to, or athlete that ends up roided out and useless?

You don't need that shit, you don't. The genre of kitsch shouldn't fucking exist. Why the fuck is stamping a hobby? You spend hundreds of dollars on wooden blocks with images carved in them, for what? To waste more paper on your trivial decorative nonsense that inevitably finds itself in the trash? A wasted industry and I will have it no longer. The poor will not take your caste offs any longer, they have had their fill.

The skies overhead buzz to the sound of planes transporting your uselessness elsewhere, so other countries can enjoy your castoffs.

This will not stand!

I will return to you what is yours. From dust you came and to dust you shall return.

A new voice began to play, much deeper and more narrative lending credence to the message painted above the recorder"Orson Welles did it right."

With his last remark, the transmission ended and the sky erupted, each plane transforming into a fountain, reigning debris over every major city, engulfing the whole of America in flames. Through every house, through every window, a used teddy bear, discarded pieces of Armoire, a bobbing bird, all of it decorated the landscape, much to the alarm of those home. They had witnessed a conflagration unlike any other, a bullet with everyone's name on it. There weren't enough firemen to even attempt to negotiate priorities. After witnessing the results yielded, Mark sat back in his seat and uttered with satisfaction:

"Now we begin anew."

Joe stepped back, bewildered more so by the fact that he just heard a story from a brick wall, than the elements themselves.

"Utah is a fucked up place."

As he retreated back to his bench, the onset of everything that plagued him came rushing back and with it, a tear.

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