The Environment Police

"Your whole society is just so fake!” she exclaimed, glancing sidewise at her companion. “Plastic everywhere! Your people go about their lives, shiny new cars, complexes, credit cards, bright lights and great heights. But you all forget the big fights, the wars, the pain and suffering in the night. You’re all materialistic bastards, without a care for those with a life that’s hard.”

“At first I was sad when my humanity was taken from me, ripped by she who has ruled the night for an eternity. But as the nights grew longer, and the daylight faded into memory, I started to relish the fact that I am other than thee. I sit on the sidelines, free of these moral land mines. I wait for a sign, something to show me on who to dine.”

Her companion’s eyes widened in horror. After that statement, it finally dawned on him that he wasn’t going to be leaving this room. There would be no ransom notes, probably nothing even for his family to find. He was staring his death in the face and she smiled back at him cruelly, with eyes that glittered with a hint of insanity.

“If you were wondering, in your case it was the car you were driving. I know that all cars share some of the blame for polluting,” she smiled sadly, “but did you think I’d ignore your swaggering about in a SUV limo?”

She moved closer, and he noticed the gleam on her rather sharp canines. “If those like you would help clean the environment too, then I wouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do.”

Captain Amazing’s 9mm

“See, Captain Amazing is this self-proclaimed ‘artiste of the century’; he makes his so-called art out of whatever he happens to have lying around, soup cans and his own urine. But he kills, somehow. He’s also one of the most outgoing fags I ever laid my eyes on, you dig? It isn’t just his threads or the way he talks, it’s the things he does. This cat would walk through a crowded bash and rub up against your ass, erection at the ready, just so you know he means business, ‘My, my, my, my. It seems to me that the divining rod just struck me some gold.’

“Of course, the guy would spin around to see who the faggot is, but he’d take the bait. Captain Amazing can smell a flaky from a mile away, and he’d be ready with the snort waiting for ’em. ‘All this just for a rim job? Who am I to refuse?’

“‘Well, a rim job for starters, but then we’ll talk,’ followed by a large guffaw.

“The thing that everyone seems to remember about Captain Amazing is his 9mm. For some reason, he compulsively packs this plastic water gun; you’ll never see him without it. And don’t expect Captain Amazing to only be armed with water; his little buddy is always loaded up with vodka. I really thought everybody was hip to it, but I remember some old paper shaker requesting a refreshing douche; that nosebleed was unreal, didn’t have a clue, ‘It’s not just a matter of hygiene, although it does make me feel clean inside. But I do find nothing more sensual before the act itself.’

“‘Lady, you have any idea who you’re talking to? Besides, in my expert opinion, I wouldn’t recommend…Actually, I’m sure this would clean you out nice.’

“Let me lay it on you, Amazing’s working the room, squirting everyone with his charm and spirits, ‘Oh-ho-ho, you cats like that jazz? Maybe I’ll introduce you to my other 9mm, the Royal Shaft,’ when this stuffed-shirt trots in.

“Captain Amazing won’t have that; if you’re near Amazing, you’re far from Nowheresville. He squirts the square with the vodka, ‘Think fast, Professor Blast.’

“Too bad this Ivy Leaguer’s got the jets to light up at the same time, ignites his face and shirt. Wrong place, wrong time; everyone’s too stoned to know what’s what, thinking it’s just a show or something. Once everyone’s in orbit, guy’s already got third degree burns all over.

“No moral to this story, just a little anecdote. And believe you me, I’d never seen burning flesh up to that point, but it’s really something; it sort of…melts, just like plastic.”

December Quote

"I love Los Angeles. I love Hollywood. They're beautiful. Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic."
-Andy Warhol

Open My Eyes/Lessons Learned

I drove down the highway at a busy time of day. I enjoyed the sights, but not the sounds. We were off to the mountains to sight see; I knew exactly where I was going, but I took a wrong turn and suddenly I didn’t know. The road I was driving upon disappeared before my very eyes and we fell. Somewhere on the way down, the car disappeared as well. We fell for forever, and yet it wasn’t far at all. At the time, it all seemed a bit funny.

I climbed the ladder to fix a burnt out bulb, but I slipped on the way up. The ladder fell on top of me and a step snapped. I attempted to stand, but my legs seemed trapped inside the ladder. Eventually, I succeeded, but the ladder lay in ruins all around me. And now I can’t reach the bulb.

A man approached me on the street, late at night. He told me he felt my aura and needed to speak with me. He asked me to follow him and listen to his words. And he told me he would open my eyes, if only I would allow him. I tried to. And one day he disappeared, but he left me a message, written in blood and bone and dead human organs wrapped in barbed wire. It read, “Go home and pretend to live your life. One day you may open your eyes to the world and you will need to pretend no longer.”

A Realization

“Torturing is cruel, it is true. But sometimes it seems necessary. Well, not necessary, but it makes things much easier. And it really is a test of creativity. I mean, I could have just beaten you or something, but that’s a waste of my time. A real test of skill comes from elaborate schemes, such as the one I have for you today.”

His victim sat shivering, tied to his chair. The man looked at the strange contraption placed before him. “I told you I don’t know anything. I-I don’t know why I’m here. You must have the wrong guy.”

A knowing smile graced the host’s face, “Oh no, we’re not mistaken. We know exactly who you are. You’re the one who’s wrong. We’re not after information of any kind; we’re instilling a state of fear in the land. It’s our basic method of imposing our control over you and everyone else.”

Shock came to the victim’s face, “Is this true?”

He just couldn’t believe that this man would be that frank with him, although he supposed that he might not be around for much longer. His torturer gave him a moment, and he paused in full comprehension. With anger in his voice, he added, “You’re sick.”

“Think what you want. Shall we start?”

“Before we do, I just want you to know that you can only get away with this for so long.”

“Oh?” The host looked back with concern in his eyes. “What makes you say that?”

“Keeping everyone in a state of fear? Controlling everyone like that won’t last. Eventually, justice will come your way. The people won’t stand for it forever.”

The torturer paused and considered everything his guest just imparted on him, “You’re probably right. I’m sure we won’t be able to keep this up forever.” Another smile appeared on his face, “Of course, until that time comes, I know I’m going to have a lot more fun than you do.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, until the torturer broke the stillness, a smile still wide across his face, “Shall we begin?”

The Rebellion

I remember the day when the old king fell.

He was a tyrant, conquering everyone and anyone. His war machine seemed unstoppable. With him at the helm, the empire grew powerful. It wasn’t long until he conquered the known world.

But our king wasn’t happy with that. He wanted more. And so we continued. We saw strange and marvellous sites, adding them one by one to his growing empire. It wasn’t long until the nation was a bloated, sprawling thing.

And still the king wanted more. He ordered us to build him grand ships, then sailed away in search of new lands to conquer, new riches to add to his ever growing horde.

But he did not think of the consequences of leaving with the majority of his armies.

In a little, all but forgotten corner of the empire, there was a people who had been conquered a long time ago. They were the king’s first conquests. And when they knew their fight was hopeless, they surrendered, biding their time. They moved throughout the empire, speaking out against the king a little at a time, always under cover of darkness. When the king left, they stirred us to rebellion.

I remember their leader, Balthazar was his name. He was so strong, so charismatic. If anyone could overthrow the king, it was him. Myself a conquered citizen, I agreed with Balthazar; enough is enough! All of our countries should be free to govern themselves! We should be free, not slaves to a warmonger’s whims! And so I committed myself to his cause.

In some ways, it is amazing we succeeded. Sure, it was easy to overpower the home guards, there were so few of them left. Over half of them agreed to join our rebellion. But to kill the king when he returned, surrounded by his army, that posed a challenge.

But Balthazar was prepared. When the king’s war machine landed and set camp on the shores, we were ready. We added a sleeping potion to their food and slaughtered them as they slept. Balthazar himself captured the king and paraded him back to the capital. The king was beheaded amidst much rejoicing. Now we were free! The reign of terror was over!

But no one was prepared for what came next. Rather than disband the empire, Balthazar used those remaining home guards to seize control. Those who willingly accepted him became his new citizens. Those who refused became his slaves.

Yes, I remember the day when the old king fell. The relief and the hope for the future. The belief that everyone would be free of the tyrant’s rule. These beliefs are all that keeps me going as I toil in Balthazar’s slave camps, having traded one tyrant for another. Hopefully one day that longed for freedom will be mine in truth.

In the Marshes

It's dark and there's singing through darkness, like the sound of joy cast through the night that speaks in the voices of men, women and children. The sounds of the forest are nothing, drowned out by the singing. In the distance atop the hill he can see the fires burning by the village, they're dancing up there while he moves through the marshlands, through the reeds with the leeches. Atop the hill, they sing of killing the cockroaches.

"Marie-eve..." He calls, his voice hushed. "Ignace?" He moves onto the shore, slowly and even so the sound of splashing water as he emerges is too loud for his comfort. There's no sound from his sister or brother. They had hidden nearby when school teacher, Mr. Kabiyara had come through by torchlight with some of the other boys calling their names.

The voices of death were always familiar - a friend, a classmate, a teacher - moving through the trees, through the swamps descending on anyone they found like flies to a carcass. Under the canopy of the forest, in broad daylight for the murder has no shame. Bodies lay face up in the moss, the water runs wet with blood, where limbs and flesh of the dead float idle in still water disturbed only by the wading hunting parties. They have their boisterous laughs, their callous heckles; it is a perfect picnic of butchery.

Every day it is the same, only the victims are different. At first there was fighting, it was the way of the Tutsi and the Hutu. Every few decades there would be a killing, the Hutu would come they would fight in fields for a time - everyone said it would be like that again and it was, at first. The Hutu had come and they traded insults and blows and many were injured, and then they came with officials and militia with guns and machetes and this time it didn't stop. Yes there was fighting at first, but that was passed. The heroes were all gone now, they fell first, and now there were just those left that hid in the swamps eating spiders and beetles just to stay alive. There was nowhere to run, and only the sound of the cicadas and the singing to keep them company.

Marie-eve and Ignace do not answer this time. It is the silence he's feared every day now for two months, the silence they've all feared - the very same to claim so many when night falls and the cockroaches crawl from their holes. That was how it was, when the fighting ended they had prayed, but the voice of God had walked through the swamps with a machete in his hand, the sins of race purged by his pennance. How holy and divine! But still Faith was Faith, and so they had all prayed for a deliverance that would not come.But all that was in the past - now the marshes were silent. You hear no children's cries, not even murmurs - when they uncover a woman, an infant or a nursling, you never hear a cry. It's miraculous, so to speak.

They no longer asked to be spared, that's the truth. Yes the world had gone mad, and they had stopped hoping, there's no mercy to be had anymore in the marshes and so they drifted anonymously into an empty silence each night, without a whimper or a prayer. Yes it's true. That was the cold reality of sharpened steel; the knowledge that no one was coming. Friends, neighbours, foreign governments, and God Himself; add what name you will; either they could not or they would not intervene. Even when the final blow was struck there was only the sound, the terrible sound of bone and sinew being hacked apart. And then there were cheers, and laughter, and gaiety.

Alphonse wanders through the marsh - finding moss and leeches to eat. Neither hungry, nor sated he sits on a rotting log looking into the sky. His thoughts are empty. Gradually the first rays of dawn etch their arc across the morning sky and voice calls out from the darkness. "Alphonse, is that you?" A whisper from somewhere. Alphonse bolts upright, though it is a moment before he puts a face to the voice... there's no trust any longer for the familiar.

"Ignace?" Alphonse looks around using his sleeve to quickly wipe his face of mud and tears, as though it mattered suddenly. Before he had time to ask again Ignace is already standing up. His younger brother by a year - his form is either some animal or monster. His clothes are torn and tattered, more mud than thread now. Alphonse wonders a moment if he looks the same. "You look like a cockroach."

Ignace pushes him right off the log with a kick in the shoulder just as a gunshot rings off in the morning sky, a stark cry to sound off the morning hunt. Alphonse stares up between his legs at Ignace who looks back at him with wide eyes. He realizes now that he hasn't asked about Marie-eve though now is no longer the time. They scramble back into the marsh splashing frantically into the reeds and the vines to find their separate places to wait out the day.

A morning mist settles on the swamps, mornings like this the killings are less. Though as it unfolds there comes the realization that today is different - trucks, the ones the militia and the interahamwe first came can be heard along the road. Voices can be heard from the village, completely indistinguishable through the mist. "Alphonse... what's going on?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe they think we're all dead... you know, they finally got us all."

"They have lists. They know we're still out here."

"Maybe they think we've all run off."

"Where's Marie-eve?" There's no answer. "They know there's still some of us out here, so be quiet; it might be a trick you know."

As the morning mist rises, another gunshot rings through the air, a silence, then another and another somewhere in the distance the sound muffled by the hills and the trees and the mist. And then, like the cackling of a flock of birds the whole sky errupts in a cacophony of howling rifles - not pistols or hunting rifles either but automatic military ones. And as quickly as it came, it goes... a few last shots here, a burst there and then a return to silence.

"It's the rebels - it's the RPF." Ignace says it out loud a few moments after Alphonse thinks it. The government's fighting the rebels, like a prayer being answered two months too late.

"Maybe. Stay where you are - if we get shot now everyone will say we're stupid."

They wait in the reeds, and until nightfall to come out. The end seems like a surreal experience. There's no solace to be had when the rebels drag the priest into the village square, tied up, line him up next to the village administrator and put bullets through their heads. Most of the rest of the village men have already fled, Alphonse, Ignace and the rebels watch the others leave. There's no point in killing everyone - better to let them flee, let the government try and feed them and let them starve awhile. And just as the murderer's file out, by ones and twos other survivors come in. At the end of the massacre there are no celebrations, only food, rest, and for Alphonse and Ignace, a long journey. Somewhere... away from here.


Once, someone quoted the words of a wise man to Alphonse and the words seemed to wander restlessly about his mind, like a canker sore in his mouth that his tongue simply couldn't let alone.

When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always.

He silently ponders those words. Who spoke them, he thinks. What evils did they face? And what despair did they live and what solace did they gain from such words? And after their tyrants were dethroned and their invincibles put to flight did they walk - as Alphonse did now - down a crowded road with nothing but some food, a pair of shorts, an old t-shirt and a head full of memories? And did they walk, as Alphonse did now, down a road hemmed on two sides by corpses piled eight feet high while the crows feasted?