Philly’s P-Hines[T] /> Hardcore Phant-[O]m$ (Novel)

The first part (of 4) of Philly’s P-Hines[T] /> Hardcore Phant-[O]m$ is below the link to the pdf. Unfortunately, the store is not fully functional right now, so if you want a copy, just email me at jcorryjr6@gmail.com.

Blurb: In the wake of the 2015 Baltimore riots, 19-year-old reformed gang member Randall Gähstŭr is brutally murdered in cold blood, leading both the investigators, and his closest friends, into a deep web of conspiracy involving everything from police corruption, to gang mentality, love, the halls of congress, drug addiction, and, eventually /> r(E)volution.

Reviews:

“Imagine if Tom Wolfe had been born in 1975 and instead of writing 'Radical Chic and Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers' in 1970, he'd have written a book about the state of society and it's obsession with social media, internet fame and all of the intricacies that go along with it. On shrooms. Using Chuck Palahniuk's 'Pygmy' as his sole piece of inspiration.... you'd have John Corry's 'Phi11y's P-Hines[T] /> #Hardcore Phant-[O]m$'.” -Travis Besecker

“On the outset, the intimidation factor must be overlooked in order to put yourself in the proper mindset to read it, then ultimately EXPERIENCE it.” –Goodreads reviewer

Phi11y's P-Hines{T} /> #Hardcore PHant-[om]$ (PDF)

$0.00

Prologue

April 24th, 2015

3:14 a.m.

“I’ll show you who’s hardcore, you sonofabitch. Show the world what being hardcore really means /> Teach you to out-#Hardcore me MUTHAFUCKA!!!!–

“BIOTCH!!!!![1]–”

Barry *mumbled loudly (!), brashly, franatically**[2] and incoherently to himself (!!!) /> swiftly, briskly, and like a total LOSER-–sometimes YELPING in a high-pitched squeal–violently™[3]–like some type of mad scientist or a really good opera singer or some shit™–totally fucked up–as he approached the outskirts of Randall’s property in the dead of night #Technically-RandallsParentsPropertyButWhatever:/. A couple passing by on the otherwise dead-empty street could hear and smell him quite well (xop), but after seeing his long hair, those simply wildly inappropriate sunglasses (like, it was night-time #TheresJustNo-PracticalPurpose (meaning: the sunglasses were Absolutely un-necessary, and, more degenerately: pretentious, and could only ever possibly be used by someone that long after sundown for ‘camp’ purposes #PretentiousAsssholes #HipstersAreNotHuman #IAmNot-AHipster #IWasNeverAHipster #NotAHipster #CynicismIsNotCool #IAmNotACynic #IAmNotACynicYouAre #GodIsNotACynic)), and barely visible ______-colored skin, simply wrote it off as “a werewolf or some shit, I dunno. Who cares? That’s what we have cops for: protection /> from everything and everyone. So let’s do what we were born to do…

“Let’s bang, bae-bae–”

Barry was a black-metal, overtly-hater-hipster, totally insane #BlackMetalheadDouchebag (douchebag?) douchebag Douchebag™ (also: the worst kind of metalhead Douchebag™ ($)), who felt weakly that his opinion was the only one that mattered, though that was never the way anybody else would ever hear it–

Randall’s parents’ big suburban home lie atop a large hill, whose gradual downward slope served as its backyard;‘twas hĕře dideth Barry parkteth himself croucheth behindeth a tree just before the woods that the yard gave way to, behindeth him–

Barry, still without-thought: “I’ll show you hardcore, little bitch. Dirty ass-licker, twat-flicker cum-spitting piece of shit! Fuckin’ Jane Doe[4] level shit, just without the technicality or the heart–”

He left his spot behind the tree, speed-walked his way up the hill, and to the door–

The back door under the deck led into the basement–

He KICKED down the back door, PACED the floor, reached the stairs–

The Irish (!!!(!!)), scum-as-total-shit-and-peasantry (put that fuckin’ potato down!) black metal Douchebag-dillhole-shit-munching-cocksucker-homophobe-fuck-cuck-chronic-masterbator marched sternly, but not excessively quickly or obviously–

>Calmly-Confidently<

–up the stairs, through the kitchen, around the main staircase going up the middle of the house, through the dining room, and–OMG (!) #IJustMetYouButThisIsCrazy (!!!)–UP the main staircase and–

“Goddamned sonofabitch–”

Barry /> KICKED down the bedroom door of Randall’s (bedroom?) bedroom #ThatWouldMakeSense more suddenly than a cat lunges at a mouse during a nice family dinner, but it actually wasn’t so suddenly at all! The chainsaw in Barry’s hands had been rattling since he pulled the starter cap halfway up the stairs!!!

“AAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”

>High-Pitched, High-Frequency Demonic Dolphin Laugh from Hell (Japan[5])<

=OOOOOO

XDDDDDDDD

Barry RAISED the saw over his head–

“STILL THINK I’M NOT HARDCORE NOW???!!!”

“Barry??!!–”

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!–”

“NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The vibrating spikes on the saw cut rigidly–yet surprisingly straight[6] (oo.O ;\)–through the middle of Randall’s head and face, but–interestingly enough[7] (xxxXXXD)–on a slight slant from right to left, so that the two pieces were cut from the top of Randall’s left ear to around the bottom of his mouth on the opposite side. The blood SHOT out like from a powerful hose. It SPRAYED all over Randall’s bedroom, covering everything from his TV to his window to his impressive hip-hop vinyl collection (Big L, Rakim, Biggie, KRS-One, PAC, Nas, Talib, Diabolic, A Tribe Called Quest, Immortal Technique, Kid CuDi, GZA/Genius, Mos Def, Kendrick Lamar, Lauryn Hill, Tha’ Method Man (actually: anything related to Wu-Tang), Eminem, Jedi Mind Tricks, Big Pun, Hopsin, Mobb Deep, J. Cole, The Chronic, The Roots, Cannabis Corpse–), and even his copies of Golding’s Lord of the Flies[8] and The Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley[9] on the waaaay other side. The eyes BURST from their sockets–thanks to the pressure–and Barry’s laugh only became crazier, louder, more frenetic and more audible as the saw scurried its little way across Randall’s ill-fated skull, his mouth quickly filled with blood, surging GUSHED from the growing wound in heavy waves, DRENCHING both Randall and Barry within milliseconds, like a lava lamp.

:(

It was all immensely gory, cartoonish, disgusting and ridiculous; even worse than that one time Barry pissed and vomited all over himself at a party in high school. It was really gross (xOP) (both the event in question, and this most recent apparent acclamation (as if you couldn’t already tell :/) :/ (:/)). In fact, if you were there (where?), you probably yourself would have pissed and/or vomited in chunks all over yourself, making you so inherently smelly, gross, and unattractive that you would only most probably never-be-able-to-bag-a-decent-date-again (:O), like a TOTAL loser…

X’ddddddd

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was super hardcore (:o) …

…

Part One

(‘Fake’ Intro/Prologue to the ‘Real’ Story)

1-I-0%!ish-1/4

 “If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything.” –Malcolm X

“Blind obedience to authority is the greatest enemy of truth.” –Albert Einstein

“Perspective. You start looking at things differently, like everything’s not so important. You don’t take things so personally. Everyone changes, becomes better people. We all should get that chance.” –Tupac Shakur

I

April 24th, 2015

9:37 a.m.

“Seems obvious, if you ask me. In fact, I’d say we’re just about done here…”

It was 9:38 in the morning–On a Friday–and Special Agent Palmer’s (‘păl-mēr’) third day on the job, his senior partner Special Agent Gestarrè’s (‘jest-àre-RAÝ’ ($)) forty-first year. Already, it’d proven an interesting relationship, as only moving-time could tell in the end. The snow begot from the storm three days earlier was still packed as if it’d only fallen in the previous few minutes, Palmer thinking himself the only one who noticed. He did his best to let it drift out of his mind without notice, but, as-per-usual (:!), he was unsuccessful.

><[10]

Blood still blanketed Randall’s old room. His horribly disfigured body lay in several, often unrecognizable, pieces on the ground and on the bed. The mother and the father of the deceased had greeted the two special agents at the front door, and proceeded to show them to their son’s room, barely able to hold their tears. As expected, they were quite torn over the situation, but, originally, despite all evidence and/or past understanding or pretense telling them otherwise /> had faith that things might actually work out for once (>><<) /> something they weren’t too used to in their experiences as American citizens. Be it their own fault or not, the couple had hoped and thought that, of all people, law enforcement would understand and so be able to sympathize with them at least a little bit–

After some less-than-appropriate ‘remarks’ (jokes) from Gestarrè about the moment he and Palmer first arrived on the scene, Mrs. and Mr. Gähstŭr (‘gash-TÖÖR’ ($))[11] decided sedulously, at the subdued behest of a reluctant conclusion made with the help of some steps and pieces of opinions, new information, and suggestions from others (like Palmer(‘s lack of speech)?), that they leave for the rest of their home, to their own devices, to deal in whatever way they found most helpful amongst only themselves in their just newly-defined-as-young, dark, souls…

Palmer and Gestarrè investigated the room.

“Typical gang case,” Gestarrè said as he stood from his squat. “We’ll report it to Sergeant Fucs,” (‘FUCKS’ ($)). “He’ll file it in its rightful place under miscellaneous gang and/or-drug-related violence, nothing more *Clearly *Clearly *ClearlyNoth-ingMore *ClearlyNothingMoreThanSimpleViolence *Simple *Simple *Simple *Nothing, and we can go back to our normal routine. No worries.”

Gestarrè straightened his thickly rimmed glasses, pet his nice, awesome, and fully white beard, began writing something down on his #Clipboard (a ‘fancy’ clipboard with a cool, however totally-fake-ass looking silver border around the edge (it was real (silver (I think)), I don’t know for a fact, though, actually, so don’t take me up on that (so it could be fake (plastic)??? #Whatever #StupidShitDoesntMatter #MoneyMoney-MoneyMoneyMoneyMoney$$$)) xp) /> but Palmer didn’t hear a thing Gestarrè said (xo). He was engulfed in the blankness and the murk that came with having a heart and a fucking brain in such an Absolutely dark human time-and-place as around America, 2015 #TheDarkestTime *TheAbsoluteDarkest #SoDark *SoDark *SoDark #SoDarkItllNeverComeBackAroundNEVER-EVERNEVEREVERNEVEREVERNEVERGettingBackTogetherXDDDDDD[12]. Palmer had never seen a live dead body before... If Gestarrè were holding any information back, Palmer wouldn’t have heard it anyway…

:’(

“You have anything to add?”

Gestarrè looked up from his #NotepadClipboardThing (or whatever the FUCK you wanted to call it :!), saw Palmer staring out the window with his hands held together behind his back, unmoved.

“Special Agent Palmer?”

Palmer said nothing.

Post-another-pause: “Fucking gangs; lazy, immature hoodlums tearing our world apart,” Gestarrè mumbled as he looked back down. “If only we could find a way to stop them from forming in the first place...”

Palmer bit his tongue–

“But–” he stuttered. “–But what about that ‘Barry Swindle’ (‘swin-del’ ($))? The one whom Former Officer Gähstŭr was mentioning?”

Gestarrè sighed.

“You know we can’t do that, Palmer,” he said. “Especially with all that’s happening in Baltimore today[13]. Randall was a crack addict, a leftist, degenerate–a total menace to society, nothing more, no possibility of ever becoming anything more–and you know who Barry Swindle’s parents are, they’re practically celebrities in this town. Not to mention the Gähstŭr’s history. It’s a waste of time, Fucs knows that.”

…

“But there’s so much blood–”

“It’s only blood, Palmer. If you didn’t know it, you have quite a bit of that yourself, so it shouldn’t be much of a disruption to see it out of its normal habitat (in your body). That’s prejudiced.”

There was a pause.

…

…

“But all the limbs…”

Palmer was referring to the ripped limbs and torn organs mixed in with the human cocktail lying at his feet #MetephorF-orWorld2016 ://.

“These entrails could circle the entire house, maybe even more times than OJ could take a nice, relaxed post-homicide stroll around the block with the cops trailing behind him too afraid to do anything about it because they know how badly they fucked up with the Rodney King situation–”

“No one’s denying how sick these people can be, Palmer,” and his tone was noticeably exactly-the-same :(. “Killers like this aren’t even human, if you think about it.”

…

…

…

 Palmer: “I guess you’re right–”

“Of course I’m right. This is America. You wanna be wrong, go move to the Middle East or Germany or something; free healthcare, free college, crazy socialist cucks with no care for human fucking beings /> JESUS–fuc–ehmv…” and he went on mumbling to himself…

… … …

………

…………………………….… … … … …

…..

..

Palmer gazed about the room, pressed to forgo his emotions regarding Gestarrè’s comment, for the Absolute sake of the case #AbsoluteSakeOfTheCase. After a few minutes had gone by (o.O)–during which he got on to thinking about Stephen Hawking’s Brief History of Time, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and the basic principles of quantum mechanics (or: the ones he understood (so: barely any ‘=()) #SoRelevant *SoRelevant *SoRelevant)–he came upon the notice of a small, framed picture on the nightstand at the top of Randall’s old bed. It was the only thing not knocked over on that table.

=’)

He picked the picture up and gently swiped the Bloody Chunks off it. It was a shot of Randall, and around his sloppy-drunk arm: what would appear to be a one-time girlfriend. They were at a party. It was dark beyond the shadows, and through the windows to the sides, and there were people with smiles and hugs in the background…

=’’’)

Palmer smiled (:), the origins of a #Tear forming quaintly around his right eyeball as his lip began to frantically SHAKE and QUIVER (xx’d) #SoFrantic *SoFrantically. He swiped the remaining ‘stronger-stickier’ brain matter still stuck to the picture’s otherwise smooth surface, and brought it closer to his eye. It was a nice picture if it had to be nice, and Palmer figured that it did…

==’’’’’’’)))))

Then, after getting the sentiment he needed (====’(), he let it go, and watched it slowly waver downward, and back onto: the mattress–amidst the pile of entrails as he looked–and brought into focus the top half of Randall’s SPLIT, severed head–specifically: the forehead with the left eye (:/)–probably one of the more disturbing aspects of the scene…

‘x’((oppp

…

…

……

‘Hardcore Bitch’ it read in sloppy handwriting–the kind that someone with a strong case of ADD and a terrible obsession with that horrible hip-hop music would have had (><)–written in blood and embedded in rotting flesh. If all practical on-the-spot guesses would prove correct, the tool used for such a discreet venture could only have been a very rusty shank of some sort, because after just a few hours, it had already turned a nasty mix of green and purple with a black rotting crust.

‘Hardcore…’ Palmer thought.

o.O

‘I think I’m having a strong feeling that there might be something more to this, something as-yet unseen...’

…

…...

..

…………….

#PoliticallyCorrectJudgmentalObsessedWithWordsOverMeanings, straight-up/total hipster-as-shit postmodernist do-uchebag DOUCHEBAG™ DOUCHEBAG™ #Douchebag #Post-modernistDouchebag  #AllPostmodernistsAreDouchebags #Wh-ackedTheFuckOutCrazyFuckCheat Dicksmeller-In-The-Morning #LoveVomiter #LoveHating confused dumbass fake copper bullshit bullshit bullshit #AllThugsAreConservatives #TheAlt-RightIsFullOfShit #TheAltLeftIsFuckingStupid #TheAltRightIs-FuckingStupid #AllFascistsAreDouchebags #AllThugsArePost-modernists #CalmTheFuckDown #CALMTHEFUCKDOWN #CALMTHEFUCKDOWN #Fuck #FuckFuckFuck #FuckFuck-FuckFuck #TorettesIsARealDiseaseDontDiscriminateYouFUCK #TorettesIsARealDiseaseButIDontHaveIt #Fuck #Fuck #Fuck *Fuck *Fuck *Fuck #Fuck–

..

II

Date: The thirtieth of the month ‘August’, in the year ‘2014’

Time: Around 11:30 p.m., (or: as close as you can get :/)

Place: Mitch’s ‘house’ in Tinkertown: A, roughly >forty-five minute drive from Center City Philadelphia, U-S-And-A #Borat #TheSuitIsNOTBlack[14]

Event: Forgettable teenage house party

The real event:

     …

        It was the day before…

   ……The day before it happened……

         ……The day preceding, aforetime to, and generally amidst of……

#TheBranding™

XOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO[15]

/>

=)

There may have been a crowded city not-too-far-away (like: Philly), and a hopping business district even closer complete with a Hooters, a record store, and a hospital #EquallyImportant #FoodMusicAndNurses, but Mitch and his dad lived alone in a small townhouse on the outskirts of rich-ass Tinkertown, formerly known as Addisville, formerly known as Bear Country after it wasn’t known as anything because who the hell wants to learn what fucking language the fucking Native Americans spoke, let alone how to actually speak it, fucking whack-jobs–

In fact, it was only half a townhouse, Mitch’s dad’s house (or: Mitch’s house, either way, it doesn’t really matter :D), attached to another townhouse down its middle, and the neighborhood was so acutely dense that it was a downright miracle nobody had ever called the cops on them after all the times Mitch would throw giant-crazy-teenage-ragers when his dad wasn’t home. These were loud parties he had there; mad question askin’, blunt passin’, music blastin’[16] #BigPoppa #Not-oriousBIG, and every time Mitch had one, someone either hurt #HerOrHimSelf very badly of #HerOrHis own accord /> or a fight would break out.

>< 

In fact in fact (o.O): one time–around 2012 and when the whole main crew was there (like Al, House, Herb, Hershel, Candice, Barry, Randall and Eliza (among more (many more… :o)))–a group from their rival high school was over at the behest of a girl Mitch was dating at the time. She was kind of a bitch, but Mitch was a total piece of shit, so it worked out.

Herb and Al knew a few of these ‘newly arrived’ peeps, as they went to middle school with them ‘back in the day’. They were friendly at first /> until Herb finished the boot and passed out on the ground, blocking the small entrance to the kitchen and forcing everyone who wanted to cook something to cook over him #NotCookingWhenYoureDruckIsForPrudes /> or so Herb remembered when he would tell people this story (x/). Al and Candice started making out only twenty minutes in, ignoring everything else going on, even the: “Al, we need your help over here!!!” and the: “He’s got a gun, that he must have bought illegally because all legal gun-owners are always responsible and never liable as gun-owners when something goes wrong with their guns!!!!!!” yelps from just a few feet away (Al nor Candice even flinched (<3 X3 #GunJoke? #ButFavorableToWhich-Side???)). Herb was a manipulative, lost, hipster/wannabe, looking–for (??) Douchebag™ ($), real piece of work–

Al, on the other hand, was a metalhead, I-hate-everything-but-Slayer dick/clogged-pee-hole fucker ($) with a mouth to talk shit, but a mind to listen, albeit most times vaguely. He liked Slayer. A lot. Even more than Pantera. He was a total /> fuckin’ idiot[17]–

Anyway, in case one hadn’t picked up on this already, the other high school crew and Mitch’s got into a fight, so there’s that.

“Shouldnta’ come here talkin’ shit if they weren’t looking for a fight, nah mean?”

“True dat–”

>Fist bump<

Chaaa–

“You’d better not be slobbering all over that thing over there!”

House was yelling loudly over the immature crowd–though few of them noticed it–wearing a BIG smile (as he always was (ugh! #Asshole #TotalAsshole) :!), and sipping on his fifth drink in twenty minutes. Hershel was sitting at a desk facing the wall (so: facing the opposite of House and all them) putting the finishing touches on the blunt as he talked to Mitch about how horrible ALL drugs were (like alcohol?), and how Mitch would BEAT THE LIVING SHIT outta anybody who dared violate his strict no-drug policy he’d always had in place at his parties (Mitch did not notice what it was Hershel was making, (like: the blunt (like: the marijuana blunt #Drug #The-WorstKindOfDrug #ALCOHOLISNOTADRUG)).

Hershel’s response: “Nah, we’re good, House.”

“Aight, just makin’ sure.”

=D

/>

“I mean: I’m all for free speech, but deliberately insulting one’s religion? Religion is so personal and indefinable, I mean, come on–”

“Fuck off, Eliza, deliberately insulting something ‘meaningful’ isn’t the only thing we’re talking about when we talk about those shit-eaters as it becomes a whole ‘nother issue when the thing being,” and Al took a ‘quotable’ tone here for this next word: “…‘insulted’ is something that so desperately needs to be made fun of /> which is fucking everything at some point, by the way. To make fun of something is pretty much equivalent to stopping something from being made too serious, as anything taken in unopposed excess is not a good thing. However, at the same time, this act of ‘joking’ or ‘satirizing’ is still not ignoring that, at times, seriousness is indeed involved. It’s just not all about that serious aspect of it is all, and it’s making a point not to focus only on that, throughout all-time. Life isn’t about being serious or subjectively focus-minded at every moment, constantly thinking about death, judgment or prosecution like those are the only things worth living or dying for in life />

“And anything says it is, is fuckin’ up–”

“He’s right,” Herb helped his friend with, taking a sip of his ‘beer’ #ShitBeerIsNotBeer$ #CallItWhatItIs (#Shit ($)). “It’s one thing to be justifiably pissed off about something, he went on, “or even rightfully insulted by it, but it’s something else entirely to take someone’s life–or one’s opportunity to one–for that strictly personal and emotional point of motivation, ignorant of both everyone else’s existential right to that same thing (a journey to/a point of: motivation?), and the fact that everyone already has it. It’s just not very cool.”

“True dat–”

They were talking about the attacks on Charlie Hebdo in Paris in January 2015, and the ‘militant group’ (or: cocksuckers #CallThemWhatTheyAre[18]) from the Middle East famous for being God-fuckers #FUCKYouMiddleFinger,|,. To reiterate: these were people very sure of their opinions, yet not the best informed, and, in most cases at these parties anyway (‘extreme religious’ and/or friendly incestuous circles? ;), it was either that or vice-versa.

xP

To Herb, Candice tried to reassure: “That was very deep of you, Herb. Good for you–”

“Kanye sucks–”

“Al?!” Herb exclaimed. “Really? Now? Maybe you just don’t get it; too closed-minded to understand other people’s points of view, ever think of that?!–”

“Beyoncé is better.”

“Well, no shit, but that’s not the point–”

>BANG!!<

Mitch, after being immediately too-exuberantly (!) excited upon first seeing his friend, Nick, walk down the stairs, in a frenzy interrupted his ‘conversation’ about blunts with Hershel and went to high-five the dude–NOT-A-GOOD-IDEA-FOR-A-REALLY-DRUNK-TEENAGER[19]–with a jump. As a result, he HIT his head so hard on the support bar splitting through the middle of the basement’s ceiling that his body FULLY swiped the opposite way of his abruptly stopped head on the bar, sending it (his head), and him (his body), hastily to the ground, where he lay for a good few seconds before he woke back up.

“Holy shit! AHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!” Barry Swindle laughed and pointed his finger from the couch several feet away. “You stupid-ass motherfucker!–”

“Yo, FUCK you, Barry!!!!”

Mitch hastily stood up, TACKLED Barry to the ground–

“Dude, get off me!”

He put him in a headlock–

“I’m only joking, dawg!!–”

“You FUCKIN’ SURE?!–”

“Yes! What the hell’s the matter with you, bruv?–”

“Yea, you-right.”

Mitch let Barry go. They both stood up from the ground.

Mitch: “I love you, man.”

Barry: “You too, homie. I’m just an asshole–”

Anonymous-House, smiling (:): “Yuuuuuge asshole!–”

“Alright guys, I think we’re good.”

Hershel stood from the desk, still putting the final licking touches on his master creation (the blunt), and spoke in between two of them.

Eliza: “Alright good, cause I’m ready to get the hell outta here. Are you guys getting hot?”

“I am.” –Al.

They passed a bored and too-sober looking Randall Gähstŭr (he was actually sober for this) on the couch against the other wall adjacent to the staircase on a ninety-degree angle (the one Mitch’s friend, Nick, had just walked down on).

Hershel: “Yo Randall, you coming?”

“/> Yup!”

>Outside<

>In the back<

“Yea, I’m down.”

“Ahahahah!!!”

>House-and-Hershel style laughs<

Randall: “I don’t get why it’s such a big deal, it’s just my name.”

XDDD

They were in the middle of a field far behind the looms of the apartment buildings (a large field over 200 yards long, and over three times that across), and just next to one of several random areas of forest (or: needed cover) scattered throughout it.

“It’s not your name, it’s your Warcraft® gamer tag.”      –House.

“Yeah. R-Man. I’m R-Man.”

“Dawg, nah, ha-ha,” Hershel blurted out, “I think that’s a great idea,” as he came down from his laughter before completely losing it again after saying: “Like, seriously /> ahahahahaha!!!!!”

He turned away, tried to contain himself, ended up bending over in an attempt to let it all out easier.

“Ahahahahahahaha!!!!!”

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal either,” after he’d calmed down.

“I fully agree.” –House, himself still holding in laughter.

“I mean: I’d have to be really drunk,” Randall said. “Like, really drunk. But if you guys provide the booze, I’m down–”

“Man, you got it,” Hershel responded. “I’ll provide all the booze, the pot, and I’ll make the thing myself tomorrow. House, your house cool?”

“Yea, man,” House responded /> still with a smile #OmgShutTheFuckUp. House was a pretentious, too-cool-for-school-but-totally-fucking-#GeekDeepDown-douchebag type-douchebag/Douchebag™ ($) with a knack for engineering, but a bad taste for shitty hip-hop. If enough people like something, can it really be that shitty?

–Yes (no?) #ContradictionsDoTheyHaveAPlace?–

“Alright. Then I’m down,” said Randall.

Hershel: “Dude, I’m so excited for this now–”

House to Hershel: “If you wanna come over earlier, work on #TheBrand™ for a while (…), that works.”

“Man, I’ll be there all day if that’s cool /> Ahahahah!!!”

“Hell yea!”

>Nineteen-year-old Randall Gähstŭr was agreeing to getting #Branded™ with his World of Warcraft® (ONLINE MMO, RPG COMPUTER GAME) gamer tag the next day, so long as, of course, he was really, really /> really drunk™<

“I mean I have faith in you guys that you’re not gonna fuck it up or get me killed or anything,” Randall added. “I think I just need to be really, really drunk, you know? Otherwise, I’ll feel it, and I don’t want to do it if I’m going to feel anything, because then it’s just stupid, you know? Like, actually stupid–”

“Don’t worry, dude, it’s gonna be awesome,” Hershel assured everyone (paying attention (so: no one other than House, Hershel and Randall /> at that time)). “We’ll take care of every-thing. Unlike Mitch’s butterfly tattoo that he got for that one girl that one time /> what was her name?–”

“I have no idea–”

“You definitely won’t regret your #Branding™,” Hershel concluded.

“No worries.”

III

August 31st, 2014

7:56 p.m.

Herb arrived at House’s house a few minutes after Randall did. He was reluctant to go over, only because House insisted ‘twas to be ‘a-night-to-remember’ dideth Herb succumbeth #Memo-rableEventsRequireMemorablePhrases, but also because Herb felt it rude to tell people ‘no’ when the request was simply to chill out and have a good tyme /> and especially when it involved only a short 2-3 minute drive from his parent’s house over to House’s (parent’s (house?) :/) (2-3 minutes? That’s all? #WhatABitch #StillTakinItBackBitch,|, #StillTakinItBack…).

Herb went down the stairs leading from the driveway to the back under-deck hangout area, found House controlling the outdoor TV with the remote control sitting comfortably at the marble-topped bar to Herb’s left, with the fire-pit/hang-out-area itself to Herb’s right. The fire-pit was really awesome: propane fueled, and there was some awesome-cool design on the table attached to, and surrounding, the part where the fire came searing out of a pile of shiny, trippy-ass looking (in a certain state of mind #HORRIBLEPeoplePotheads) marbles. Bunch of nice chairs and couches surrounding it /> House’s house was a very, very, very fine house[20].

“Yo, what-up, dude?” House asked Herb as he walked up.

“Not much, man.”

>Fist-Bump<

“Yea, you definitely sound hungover.”

“Meh,” Herb said. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Just a little bit?” –Hershel, pouring a shot of vodka for Randall. “That’s not what I heard while you were in the bathroom last night–”

“Hey at least I made it to the toilet–”

Randall SHOT the shot Hershel’d just put down for him, and Hershel quickly poured him another. Within five minutes of Herb’s being there, Hershel poured, and Randall drank, maybe eight shots, but it wasn’t that big a deal, no big deal at all. Randall went to Bloomsburg. Bloomsburg was a party school.

B)

Hershel had #TheBrand™ spelled ‘R-Man’® resting peacefully in the fire, the rubber handle at its end stuck noticeably out, which he would periodically pick up when he had to adjust it, if it needed adjusting, for safety reasons and such–

Randall reacted with a cough, said: “Man, you’re really pouring those drinks up. Are you trying to get me drunk? Haha.”

“Yeah, that’s what you told us to do–”

“I’m an easy lay, you don’t have to worry–”

“After all this, you kinda have to get #Branded™ now.”  –House from the bar, still entranced with spinning the channels.

“I agreed last night, I’m not gonna puss out–”

“He’s fuckin’ right, dawg,” Hershel said. “I’ve been making this fuckin’ thing since fucking eleven this morning. You definitely have to get it now–”

“That’s eight hours,” Herb mumbled out loud, dumbfounded, and momentarily forgetting how hung-over he was.

“Yea, homie.” –Hershel, whilst moving #TheBrand™ more into the fire. “Gotta make it perfect–”

Randall: “This stuff tastes like shit,” after just downing another one.

“Well, that’s what you get for not buying the shit yourself.” –Hershel.

“You’re not drinking anything–”

“I got this beer, holmes–”

“Well, why don’t you give me some of that?–”

“Randall, getting #Branded™ is no spicy Mexican matter,” Hershel re-interrupted #ReInterruptionsAreEvenWorse-ThanNormalInterruptions =H. “Trust me, you’re gonna want that stronger shit–”

“That was so racist!–”

“Perspective is life, bro–and society–get used to it–”

“And untrue.” –Herb. “Aren’t Mexicans stereotyped as being good drinkers?[21]–”

“Beer is twelve percent,” House whispered to Herb as Herb pulled out his phone from his pocket. “Don’t tell Randall, very good shit, this Spicy Mexican, great bang for your buck. Not enough people realize it yet, but they will. They will. You sure you don’t want any?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

Herb looked down at the text he’d just gotten from Al:

/>

/> Dude Candice is bein a total gangsta-wannabe bitch right now are u really gona screw me over like this??? House owes me beer lol

/>

Candice was a crazy (so: not-normal/normal-awesome-#InTheNormalWay), beautiful-and-knew-it-but-wasn’t-a-BITC-H-about-it kinda chick™ (and apparently occasionally total-gangsta-wannabe bitch) ($), /> hot, pretty and smart, whom one would guess was only dating Al for his money in Slayer merch ($$$). Herb really didn’t want to have to go and pick Al up, even though Al lived only a mere >4 minute drive away.

He got another text:

/>

/> I live a mere >6 minute drive away dude and that’s WITH traffic

/>

“Yo, Al’s being a meat-flapping cockholster right now, I think Im’a go pick him up.”

“Alright, well don’t take too long,” Hershel said. “This #Branding™ is happening sooooon, maaanngg.”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, no more–”

“Ten minutes?” House inquired. “It’s no more than seven to get over there and back–”

“Whatever. We’ll see–”

“Dude, it’s like, two turns and through an intersection cutting halfway through your trip in like, a minute–”

“Whatever, man! Fuck you–”

Hershel was nourishing Randall’s twelfth shot in less than ten minutes #TwelveShots #Diabolic #LiarAndAThief[22]–

“I really don’t feel that drunk yet,” he said sincerely. “I’ve had like, ten shots of ‘dis shit /> What ABV. is this anyway–”

“ABV.? You can say ‘percentage’, you know? It’s, like, way easier…”

IV

April 24th, 2015

11:48 a.m.

“And that was it, man, I swear!”

Al was ‘character’-ized like croute and spring berries on a beautiful day in May at the park (<3 :D) (!). Special Agents Gestarrè and Palmer had him in tears at his kitchen table, which he then THRUST his head down upon following that last gestic-ulation. He spoke equally as loud and ridiculous from under his arm for the next one:

“I can’t believe Randall is gone!”

“Al, do you have to be so loud? The dog is trying to sleep–”

“I KNOW MOM!!!! I JUST HAD A FRIEND DIE!!! IT’S NOT MY FAULT–”

This was the first time Al had heard of Randall’s murder, and, to say the least, it took him quite by surprise. It’d been a long time since any of his friends had died, especially under such asinine circumstances, and an even longer time since that infamous night of that infamous #Branding™. Special Agents Gestarrè and Palmer went straight there after investigating the scene at Randall’s parent’s place, a.k.a. where Randall was living and where he was brutally murdered like an Egyptian slave in Israel (?) only the night before.

Al’s mom was sick of Al still living at the house, but she did have some sympathy for the situation–

“You act like this doesn’t happen to people every day, Al–”

“OH, RAAAAAAAANDALL!!!!”

“Do you guys have to be here right now?” said Candice, sitting next to Al, asked Gestarrè and Palmer from the other side of the table. “He literally just found out about this–”

“Oh, don’t make me out to look like a pussy, Candice!” and he picked his head up with it only to SHOVE it back down once he’d finished talking (or: bitching, whatever :/).

“O-kay,” said Candice. “Fine.”

She left.

“Mr. Rockman (‘rock-man’ ($)), it would do you well to pull yourself together here so as to end this silly investigation as soon as possible,” said Gestarrè, his eyes still parallel with his pen and paper-on-something (like: a clipboard? #Everything-IsRelativeManGetOverIt) then residing in his lap. “We’re fairly certain that the killer was one of the young Gähstŭr’s old ‘colleagues’ from his gang days. Could you tell us anything about that–”

“Randall was never a dick, ASSHOLE!!” Al SCREAMED with a temporary raise of his head. “He was a great man–”

Gestarrè: “Mr. Rockman, we’re not in a position of a screaming match here, so: please, could we move along with this? If you don’t mind, I have a two O’ clock tee time this evening–”

Amidst another lowering of his head into his arms on the table, Al squealed: “RAAAANDDAAALLLL!!!!!!!–”

“Maybe we can wait just a little bit?” Palmer suggested.

Gestarrè shot him a look.

>=H

“Maybe have a cup of coffee first? Talk about deflategate a little bit?” (Tom Brady is a CHEATER–)

Al lifted his head back up.

“Yea, I think I like that idea,” as he sniffed, and wiped some ‘alleged’ cry-water from his eyes :’(. “Maybe put some bourbon in the coffee?”

“Whatever works, man, we’re here to help you out–”

“Palmer…”

Gestarrè straightened his glasses, looked back to his paper on the _________ sitting on his lap (o.O), and adjusted himself in his seat.

“Yea?” Al continued. “Bourbon? Scotch?–”

 “Palmer, can we step outside for a moment, please.”

>Insert awkward pause, because I don’t want to use the ‘…’ again<

“But–”

“Now.”

…

Al: “So is that a yes for spiked coffee?–”

>Outside<

“What’s the problem, Gest–”

“I’d like to ask: what in the fucking world do you think you’re doing?”

He spoke diligently, and with more passion (honesty? honest anger?) and indignation than ever before, far more than Palmer had been thought to think he’d had in him through the long time he’d known him (three days) *TheLongestTime #IIntendToHoldYouForTheLongestTime (=o). It was like every-thing about him when he was inside was completely restrained, but, now that he was outside–out of the ‘consumer’ or ‘average, taxpaying citizen’s’ earshot ($), and smoking a cigarette like a mad cat lady on Adderall or some shit™–he could say and do whatever he wanted, because in order for him to truly have that right, everyone else had to think that they did as well (at the very least ($)).

Palmer answered: “I’m questioning the witness–”

“I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to be a stickler here,” sarcastically laughing and FLINGING his arms up for ‘dramatic’ effect. “But I’ve been one of the leading detectives of our lady Philadelphia’s 14th and 1/6th precinct since the Cold War and, as I know you ‘Millennials’ love to forget about history, that was quite a long time ago now.” (History? Or: ‘time’ … :ooo (oh, man)??) “Need I remind you that you’ve only been on the job for three days, and already I’m getting the sense that you think you know how to do your job better than I, you fuck–”

He gained his composure back with a deep breath in a drag from his cigarette.

Looking off: “Another typical trait for your generation–”

Palmer: “I don’t see–”

“We have but one hour until I need to be home for my daily hour-long shower so you’d better not drag this out any longer than it has to go–”

Stuttering: “Well, I-I want to get all of the-the facts f-first–”

“There are no facts anymore, Palmer. Grow up–”

“But–”

“Palmer,” and he took another hit off his cigarette, moved his face closer to Palmer’s, and raised the hand holding the smoke to point at Palmer’s eye, avoiding contact with it by a mere centimeter at best.

“Facts are nothing more than interpretations by thinking people of what happens throughout the day. Some people are going to have different interpretations than others, so it’s not about reading or getting the facts, it’s about knowing them, and recognizing that every day is another, new, 24-hour, moment-packed opportunity to do so, and to /> a-ch (cough)–

“Fuckin’ kids nowadays–”

>From inside, as the door opened with a surging wind, it was a woman’s voice<

“I’m doing it, DUDE!!”

“I know, CANDICE!!! But you need to move FASTER now since I’m in a lot of emotional pain and physical fear for my life and I need your support!”

“Al?!”

Candice stopped pouring the drinks to look at Al through the open walkway between the kitchen and the messy dining room, where Al was sitting at the table, and where and Gestarrè and Palmer had just walked back into from outside.

With just-the-right-amount of sass: “What the hell do you think I’m doing, Al?–”

/>

“I’m sorry guys, I’m having a rough day,” Al told the Agents as they sat back down at the table. Candice was back at gathering the drinking materials in the kitchen, and would be out momentarily.

“What did you mean you’re in physical fear for your life right now?” Palmer asked.

“Well it’s just… some shit that happened that night. You know… the night of #TheBranding™–”

“Yes, about that,” started Gestarrè. “What is it about that night that makes you so worried, and why were you so quick to just call that the end before?”

Al looked at him incredulously.

o.O[23]

“What do you mean?”

“When you said that nothing happened after Herb picked you up at your house to go back to House’s house? Seems a tad shady to me, right, Palmer?”

Palmer nodded sincerely.

=)[24]

“Well, I honestly just don’t really want to continue telling the story anymore,” Al answered.

“Why is that?”

“I dunno! Fuckin.n.n.,” he hesitated. “We’ve been laughing our asses off at that whole event for the past few months, because it was freakin’ hilarious, but now it seems as though it can’t be funny anymore!!! GODDAMMIT!!! Oh Randall!!! Oh Barry!!! Why??!! Why, oh, WHY???!!!”

Al THREW his head into his arms on the table–

Candice arrived with three cups of coffee, placing each one in front of each of the three men, shooting Palmer and Gestarrè some more dirty looks as she did so. Once placed in front of him, Al downed almost the whole thing on his first sip /> which Candice had proven she’d already anticipated by bringing over the coffee pot and the whiskey bottle with her as well, respectively. Palmer made a grimace in surprise at how much bourbon was in his, but Gestarrè apparently didn’t notice any-thing.

Candice sat quietly next to Al.

“Al, please,” Palmer sympathized because he was a ‘decent’ person B>:). “It could help us to figure out what happened, and to stop anything from happening to you guys, or to anyone else.”

“I dunno, just…”

Al turned away, closed his eyes.

>< 

“God, that night was so fucked up.” –Mumbled.

“Just walk us through the night of #TheBranding™. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Well, it all started when Herb came to pick me up. My four older brothers were over, they’re all a lot older than we are, and they really wanted to come when I told them where I was going–”

“Wait, they… wanted to go to a #BackyardBranding™?” Gestarrè asked.

“Well, yea. I mean how many times are you gonna witness a drunk dude get #Branded™ with a rusty, twelve-year-old clothes hanger his friend just found in his other friend’s molding garage?”

Candice nodded in agreement, small smile on her face as she SIPPED another sip of her drink.

=))

“Anyway, I’d just gotten Randall into The Roots–have you guys heard of that band?”

Palmer and Gestarrè shook their heads no.

“They’re pretty awesome. Questlove, Black Thought, they’re great. Herb played them in the car on the way over to House’s that day, took about four minutes, not long. I’d never really hung out with House and them very much, but with Candice over here wanting to do nothing but dance around to Ke$ha music on molly for hours on end every day, I had to get the hell outta here for a night.”

Candice nodded sincerely, small apologetic tilt of her head this time.

;)))

“Wait, no,” Al said. “I meant powerfully addictive painkillers often prescribed to people with a history of addiction as if we’re not all susceptible to addiction anyway /> not molly, my bad.”

=D

“Anyway, when we got there, House had some awful house music playing on the house-wide speaker system–went across the whole house–and we could hear it loud and clear the moment we turned the car off. I think it was like four O’ clock in the afternoon or so, something like that. Yea, it must have been four. It was beginning to get dark out…”

V

August 31st, 2014

8:04 p.m.

It took Herb an impressive #LikeTheMostImpressive >9 minute drive to get to Al’s, pick him up, and get them both back to House’s. Al’s five older brothers indeed got quite the kick out of his explanation for leaving. “A fucking #Branding™?!” they teased. “How old are you, six?!–

“Can we come???”

Al’s brothers liked to talk down to the poor guy, but he didn’t care this time. Being the youngest of all of six kids (I thought this was America, not some place where they have lots of babies (like China (ugh! #Disgusting))?), he was used to getting the shit end of the comradery shtick. Then, after thinking about it, he realized: getting #Branded™ was indeed no simple ‘spicy Mexican matter’ #BecauseTheDrugWarHasNothingToDo-WithThePovertyAndCrimeInThatCountry. “You guys are retarded,” Al told his brothers back with #PoliticalCorrectness #PC #PCCulture #TooPCForMe. “To do it right, you really have to know what you’re doing, and if you don’t let it heal correctly, you could end up in some real life or death, revelational shit–”

“You mean revolutional?”

“No, you idiot, revelations are what change lives…”

Al and Herb were walking up House’s driveway, from the road where the car was just parked.

“Dude, they’re just busting your balls, fuck them,” Herb reassured.

“Yea, but they’re right, I gotta grow up, man. I’m fucking 22 years old, and I still live with my mom.”

“I’m 20, and I still live with my mom.”

“Yea, but you’re a Bitch™.”

“Fuck you.”

“All I’m saying is that I have to get out. No question about it now.”

“Well, it’s kinda hard, man. I mean unless you go to college, and sell out all of your original ideas to conform to whatever ‘America’s economy’ needs you to do–”

“That’s not what college is and you know it. Unlike me, you’re actually going, and have only two years left–”

“Yea, and it sucks.”

“But in the end, it’ll work out big time in our favor. Where tha fuck you think im’a be able to shoot up and bang hookers at without your place to crash?”

“Yea I guess, I dunno, whatever,” Herb trailed off like he often tended to do in talks like these (all the time :/). “I guess I just feel like the whole thing is bullshit. Like, why should I get to go to college even though I have no idea what I want to do to help the world any more than some poor lazy piece of shit whose life will likewise never be remembered as anything more than whatever his shit job was that he hated but was able to find solace in–”

“Because you’re thinking about it–”

“Well, maybe I don’t want to think about it?”

“Well, maybe you fucking should–”

“Well, fuck you, bra’–”

“Fuck you, idiot. You’re thinking about throwing your life away for–”

“DDDUUUDDDEEEEEE!!!!”

Herb and Al were descending the stairs from the aforementioned driveway when Randall, sober-as-a-cat’ (:p), RAN up to them.

“The Roots, dude! OH. EM. Fucking GEE /> God!!!”

He gave Al a very sloppy hug.

“O. M. effFFFUCKING GOD, DUDE!!! That fucking BAND!!! No Tribe Called Quest, but still, Questlove, man, fuuuck–”

“Ahaha,” Al ignored the musical preference argument #MusicalDiscriminationsAreTheFirstDiscriminations. “I’m glad you like em’–”

Randall: “I LOVE EM’!”

Hershel was still on the couch, keeping an eye on #TheBrand™ in the fire, and House was presumably inside at the moment. Randall’s shirt was thrown in the pool (ergo: Randall was shirtless), and he was sweating profusely. Like, really, he looked fucking terrible :/.

After a minute, House came out of the glass door closest to where Herb and Al (who was still attached to a hugging-but-now-silent (and-creepier) Randall) were, on the walkway leading to the chill area about 20ft. away from them, said glass door being in the middle.

“‘Sup guys?” House said cheerily, walking out with the bong in his one hand, as he held out the other one to shake: Herb’s first.

“Not much, man, what’s up with him?” Herb said.

“Man, he’s wasted!” Hershel called from the couch. “Been drinking like it’s 1999!”

The door House came out of was the first of two from this angle, the other residing at the other end of the bar, the one closer to where the entrance to the outside downstairs area was, about 10ft. from the where the couch, the fire pit, and Hershel, all then were; the other door, the farther one, being right all up in that shit.

“Fucking alcoholic here, man! Ahahahaha!!!!” said Hershel, to which Randall finally let go of Al, FLUNG his arms up, and screamed: “I am!!!” followed with, though far less aggressively, to House: “House, is that a bong?”

“Yea, man, you wanna hit it?–”

“FUCK YEA, I DO!!!”

Randall, Herb and Al followed House over to the couches and chairs circling around the fire pit where he placed down the bong in front of Hershel, who quickly lit the thing to take a hit. Meanwhile, Randall was nudging him slyly in the ribs (according to Randall; in reality, it was more like Hershel’s head) in an attempt to get him to give him a hit first, even as Hershel was literally mid-hit and Randall still wouldn’t stop.

“What?” Hershel asked as he inhaled.

“I want a hit–”

“Well, hold up–”

“So where’s Barry at?” Herb asked as he sat down in the chair farthest from the stairs. “You said he was coming, right?”

“Yea, he’s in the bathroom–”

Hershel: “Been there a fuckin’ while /> Randall!!!?”

Randall started coughing mid-hit, and (maybe because of how fucked up he already was?) almost dropped and destroyed the bong like a real fuckin’ piece o’ shit–

Asshole.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” Hershel told him as he took the bong from his hands. “If you can’t hit it, just leave it on the table, and I’ll light it for you–”

“I can hit it, you fucking asshole!–”

“You just almost dropped the thing!–”

“So?!–”

“This is glass, holmes! You drop it, it breaks!–”

“Oh, quit being such a cop–”

The glass basement door opened, and House’s two AWESOME Labradors came DARTING out of it, along with /> Barry coming back from his short pee-pee.

“Oh shit, is that Barry?!” Al asked as, just at that moment, House’s dogs came PILLAGING upon his person, forcing Al’s complete attention to be diverted in their favor.

“That was a long piss, man!” House told Barry.

“Yea, I really had to go. What’s up?” and Barry went to shake hands with Herb, who was by now pretty fucked up from the bong hit he just took, though not so bad that he couldn’t comprehend anything going on (like he would be after he hit it again :D).

“Oh, hey, not much–”

“Yea? You get a hit offa that bong? Ahahaha!!”

He turned to Al, once again /> offered his pristine hand.

:o[25]

“Sup, dawg?”

Al, still focused on the dogs both now bellies-up and on the ground in front of him, fist-bumped Barry back, said as he did so: “House, your dogs are the most awesome dogs on the planet! A-coo-chi-coo-chi-coo!!”

Barry sat on the couch in between Randall to his left and Hershel to his right. As Al took the bong off the table and began lighting it, Randall started talking about how awesome the new season of Archer was. House agreed. Barry just kind of sat there, rolled his eyes like: ‘Man, what is up with this dude?’ (referring to Randall /> or House, or: anyone there, actually, I guess, I dunno, what do I know?). Barry didn’t really like any of these guys if he was being ‘honest’, only hung out with them because they had good weed /> very good weed. Or that’s what he told himself–

Being a #Metalhead, or: #AbsolutelyKnowledgeableOf-TheTRUTHTHEWHOLETRUTHANDNOTHINGBUTTHETRUTH, Barry knew how retarded™ everyone else always was, but whenever he’d smoke weed, he’d feel a little better about it, more accepting of it, because weed (and this didn’t happen for everyone (just as alcohol or pills surely didn’t do this for him)) would stop him from thinking too much (so much…). His guard would go down, and he’d stop being such an angry, judgmental little piece of shit-little-douchebag Douchebag™, flaunting his leather jacket and boots around like on some fucked-up black-metal runway #VargVikernes2016 (*Joke)[26]. Weed made him calm, stopped his judgments from overtaking, but, as much as it was the substance, Barry Swindle didn’t think that he liked things that fucked him up beyond all #ReasonableDoubt or conclusion like molly or a Jay-Z music video #MindlessHot-BitchesCanBeDrugsToo (Bitches?). He just liked to have fun, roll through life like on a wave UUU, chill out, whatevzzz. Would have been nice if others could have gotten the same outcome :p, or, perhaps more so (far more so…), if they wouldn’t bad-mouth something so much without ever trying it themselves. Weed itself could only ever do so much, as anything could; no matter how much you smoke or drink or talk or read or whatever /> it’s still you the one getting fucked up #Think-ALittleDeeper #DontJudgeWhatYouDontKnowAndYouDontKn-owInRealityAnyoneElsesLife #BeingAntiDrugIsBeingAntiPers-onalResponsibility #AntiDrugIsAntiPersonalResponsibility #Dr-ugsArePersonalResponsibility #PeopleAreDyingButSoWhatID-ontLikeDrugsAndWhatISayIsTheOnlyThingThatMatters #MyE-xperienceIsOurExperience #FuckYou #FuckYou *FuckYou *Fu-ckYou *FuckYou–

Barry had black hair grown a little past his shoulders that took him over five years to grow, and a thick, gay-ass ‘politically incorrect’ (‘gay’ technically means ‘happy’ =D) goatee that he always gave himself props for. Maybe if people didn’t give him so much shit, he wouldn’t have turned out to be a mindless killer? Maybe if people didn’t him give so much shit, he would have killed more people? Maybe if people didn’t like giving out shit so much and so often, we wouldn’t have to question what shit does to living things and human beings (what do you think it does? It’s shit (smelly©), not dialectic reinforcement with a thought-out personally attained disciplinary scorecard begot from others as well as through individual realization, understanding, or learning from others, or some shit™ (retard™–)??

=D[27]

Barry’d hit the bong. House would hit the bong. Herb would ‘quietly’ sip his beer. Al would talk and yell and scream. Randall would FLAIL his arms about for no reason after taking another shot /> Randall would fall over (:3). Hershel would laugh, and move #TheBrand™ when needed, and everyone just remained and hung-out like all was wonderful in the world, even though it wasn’t, because, like, the universe, and stuff, and, like, yea, like, yea, like, yea…

 

VI

April 24th, 2015

1:04 p.m.

“Yeah, haha, Randall was pretty shwasted.”

House chuckled as he sat at the bar in his basement (his parent’s basement), but not the one outside: the one inside, and the one much nicer and even more extravagant than the one outside (complete with a marble top (like the one outside :/), some comfortable, several hundred dollar bar chairs (like the one outside x), and a flat screen TV in the corner matching what was playing on the one in the living room (and on the one outside) (the Phillies game (so not exactly the same as outside (like, because the Phillies actually play outside, get it??))) ($). Said TV was currently turned to silent, however, not only so that House could hear his house music he was then playing on the house-wide stereo, but also because he just wasn’t all that interested in what was on the TV ever since the Phillies had started SUCKING GIANT DONKEY BALLS dipped in slime ever since making it to the finals that one year after they won in 2008 (yea, fuck you Tampa, I see you)–

House took another sip of his drink. He was standing in between the two special agents with his jar-shaped beer glass resting in his hand on the table, and taking large sips of it frequently. Palmer and Gestarrè both had drinks as well: Palmer a beer and Gestarrè: a purposefully light daiquiri.

:D

“He was definitely not far from belligerent, I’ll tell you that much.”

Palmer asked: “Why was Barry so offended by Randall’s exuberant love for ‘Archer’?”

“Maaan,” House responded with a sudden and over-amplified frustrated undertone. “Barry is a fuckin’ prick/teste-flicker cocksucker motherfucker, excuse me.”

House got up and walked to his phone across the room inside of the giant TV cabinet (which also housed House’s computerized entertainment devices (cable-box, Xbox, Play-Station etc.), as attached to the surround-sound speakers, and a number of other ‘creativity-enhancing’ amenities). He reached it, and started scrolling through it as Britney Spears’s ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ was coming to an end #RealHouseMusic.

Gestarrè to Palmer while House was out of hearing distance: “So what I’m gathering here is that Barry Swindle didn’t have much of a reason for any type of retaliation or violent objectification against Mr. Gähstŭr?”

“Well, we can’t rule anything out just yet, Gest–”

“God, Palmer! You’re such a bitch–”

“Oh!” from across the room.

TLC’s “No Scrubs” came onto the stereo, and House was STOKED, slowly lifted his arms up in that slow type of dance people do after they’ve just turned on a song they really like /> all obliviously entranced and shit, and staring right at, without blinking or moving his eyes in any way for about thirty seconds, Palmer and Gestarrè, one of whom didn’t notice, and the other didn’t have the peace of mind at the moment to care (ever).

;D

“I love this song,” House said, still dancing, his eyes closed in bliss (XX), after he’d relatively calmed down a moment before.

“Mr. Millstein (‘mill-steen’ ($)), can we uh… can we move along here, please?” asked Palmer.

House abruptly stopped dancing /> stared with the most hateful eyes in all of H.P. Lovecraft at Palmer until he finally looked up from whatever he had his piece of paper leaning on–

“Wha–”

“I told you not to call me that (Millstein (last names))–”

-_-[28]

“We hung out for a while just chillin, drinkin’ beers, hitting the bong,” House went on after he’d sat back down. “And by bong I mean the pipe of raspberry-flavored smoking tobacco laced with legally obtained fentanyl of course.”

Gestarrè lowered his glasses, but put them back up momentarily after House had corrected himself.

=)

“It was real nice, man, chill,” House continued. “Good time. We had more than enough beer to get Randall drunk enough to do what he said he was going to, but he just kept drinkin’ that cheap-ass ‘Wild Blue Vodka®’ shit /> you ever have that shit? It’s fuckin’ nasty, no wonder Randall got so fucked up. You know everyone I’ve ever seen get fucked up on that shit has either gotten into a fight or passed out just before they were about to? It’s fucking weird man, fuckin’ crazy, it’s like the company’s got a deal with the UFC or something–”

“Or the health industry.” –Palmer.

“Yea, you’re right. Anyway, we were just hanging out really, shooting the shit, drinkin’ some beers. Randall was fu-hucked up, but we were all just hanging out really, nothin’ crazy. I had some beers, but I wasn’t that drunk. Hershel had some really good methamphetamine that /> I’m sorry, did I just say meth? I meant thirty two-hundred milligram pills of prescribed Adderall, so five for each of us, gets you way more fucked up than meth /> although of course I wouldn’t know anything about meth anyway, because I’ve never done it, because it’s illegal and anyway it’s not like I’d ever do that anyway because I’m like, not a degenerate and…

VII

August 31st, 2014

10:49 p.m.

“Yo FUCK you HOUSE!!!”

“This is his house, Randall!!”

“I don’t give a FUCK who’s(e) House!!!!(?)”

“He’s right there–”

“Dude, just calm down–”

“Don’t gimme that shit–”

The sun had gone down two hours previous, and everyone had been drinking modestly throughout that time.

Everyone, that is…

Save for Randall…

XXOOOO

>< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< >< ><

Herb, whispering to Al: “This is kind of making me jealous that I’m not as fucked up as he is–”

“Then DRINK THE FUCK UP, PUSSY!!!”

It took Hershel a lot longer than he’d originally anticipated to think that #TheBrand™ was hot enough. App-arently, the thing needed to sit in that fire for at least four hours, otherwise there was no way that #TheBrand™ was going to stick to Randall’s leg to make the necessary permanent arrangements he so desired there. Barry disagreed, insisting they do it sooner rather than later, but House quieted the argument by saying that they would definitely do it before anyone left, and that if everyone was still chilling at the moment, and the fact that literally #Branding™ someone only takes a few moments anyway (for sure), what difference did it make?

He may have had a point–

“Aight, whatever,” Barry answered, looking away. “I’m just saying it’s been several hours now, and we’ve smoked a shit-ton of my weed.”

“Yea, I’m pretty sure that me and Hershel were the ones who’ve provided pretty much everything here right now.”           –House.

“He’s right.” –Hershel.

He was right (House and Hershel).

====DD

“That’s only because you knew I wouldn’t let you shit-heads #Brand™ me if you didn’t,” Randall added, #TotallyRelat-ed.

“Yea, speaking of that,” said Hershel, quickly interrupting Randall. “Who’s doing this? Cause I’m definitely not.”

“I ain’t doin’ it,” House offered his two cents.

“I think Barry should do it.” –Al.

“Fuck you, who do you think is smoking you out right now?”

“Uuuh House and Hershel. We literally just discussed that–”

“I think Herb should do it,” Hershel suggested.

Herb rebutted, shocked and appalled (!): “What– Why?!”

“You’ve been drinking the least–”

“So?–”

“No way,” Randall said with his arms now crossed, and with an ironic air of sensibility. “Herb’s an idiot. No offense–”

“None taken–”

“Why not Barry?” House asked, and Hershel, Herb and Al all chuckled at the thought.

“You mean the guy who pissed and vomited all over himself, and slept all night in the puddle, in his own house at his own party just last week? Ahaha,” wilted Hershel and House and everyone once again chuckled.

“Alright, so Herb’s the one then?” Hershel said as he went to move the #Brand™ more into the fire. “Cause this is pretty much ready to go.”

House: “Fuckin’ finally.”

Hershel took #TheBrand™ out of the fire. “Yes, yes, very nice,” he whispered to himself in a strange, obviously fake African accent. Then, carefully, he put #TheBrand™ back in the fire.

“Dude, I really don’t wanna do that.” –Herb.

“Oh, come on, just do it.” –House.

“I’m with Herb, I don’t think he should do it either,” Randall said with his arms still crossed, looking expressly serious, though still shirtless with sweat pouring out of him like in Amazonian swamp heaps at every inch of his body. “No way,” and he took another shot, loudly BURPING right after. Then he stood up, stretched his arms far above his head, started cracking his back, pinning his spine widely to his sides, etc.

“You’re a total idiot, dawg,” he said mid-breath, big stance. “Biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” and he bent to touch his toes, spoke tightly: “No offense–”

“Again, none fucking taken, asshole–”

“Well, we definitely don’t want Al doing it,” Barry said.

“That’s a very good point,” Randall consented, now with both his hands reached far down to his ankles /> which he began to bit-by-bit slowly spread apart as he raised his hands similarly slowly, but circularly around and up to above his head. “You’re almost as dumb as this fist-fucked shlong juice over here,” and he came back up, and pointed to Herb, as he continued to proffer like a professional fucking gymnast or some shit, if the gymnast were a gymnast in a gym-ing world-world where everyone were a gymnast and therefore in fantastic shape and working out all the time and having magnificently crazy anal sex and hanging out not always necessarily drinking but being drunk is cool when it comes up and–

VIII

April 24th, 2015

3:17 p.m.

“They made me do it. It was… bad. I was /> afraid. More so because I thought I’d fuck it up–which I did–but… I dunno. I really didn’t want to do it. They made me do it… They made me…”

Herb sat staring into space like a dying goose knowing all too well that only he, herself was to blame for his own death, no matter how many other peoples or circumstances may have appeared to cause it on the outskirts. He was kinda being a Bitch™ (a total bitch ><), but, then again, in his defense, these were somewhat benign circumstances (¯\_(ツ)_/¯).

“What did you do?” Gestarrè asked.

They were sitting in one of the few small meeting rooms in the psychiatric ward at Jefferson Hospital in Center City Philadelphia. Palmer and Gestarrè went reluctantly; according to their sergeant, even though he was nothing more than an accidental bystander, Herb Pot’s (‘pot’ ($)) take on the events of the night of #TheBranding™, would be of the utmost help regardless. Perhaps Herb’s being there could point them in the direction of the gang members so clearly responsible for Randall’s murder and, undoubtedly, so many other murders in not just Philadelphia alone, but in all cities– always such a simple result of Douchebags™ being Douchebags™ and nothing more…

>< ><

“The thing slid. It–” Herb stuttered in his recollection. “It– It wouldn’t stick to Randall’s skin…”

He turned his head to the side and downward, closed his eyes.

>>><<< 

“Everyone there laughed,” he said. “Thought it was funny at the time. I mean, it was genuinely hilarious! But the smell was terrible, and it–”

He took a deep breath.

“It swelled up the moment the metal touched flesh, and… I almost accidentally sneezed because the odor was so potent…

“It was…”

He opened his eyes back up, looked at Palmer.

“…Really nasty.”

…

…

“I never understood those guys to be honest,” Herb began again #BeginAgain #Swifty #Red #SwiftysBestRecord[29]. “I mean we’re fuckin’ bros of course, and I dunno if it was all the weed or that sheer professionalism they always had just for the sake of seeming professional, or… that’s how I always took it /> but something always just threw me off. I don’t know what it was, and I honestly don’t care, but maybe that has some implication here?”

Something always ‘just threw’ Herb off…

Always…(:o)

“Anyway, for what it’s worth, I like em’. My dad always used to tell me that I read too much. I used to go through like, three, maybe four books a week, and almost always something classic or heavy. I read Brave New World and Island by Aldous Huxley both five times each within three months; Plato’s Republic, Black Boy by Richard Wright, Orwell’s 1984, Kierk-egaard’s Fear and Trembling, The Autobiographies of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr., The Souls of Black Folk: same general thing. Alan Watts, Malcolm, Mumia Abu-Jamal, Hegel, Nietzsche, Bowie, Jung, Von Mises, Sowell, 2Pac. I fuckin’ love those guys. I never really got why people never said anything real about them in conversation or in mainstream media. I mean people think they talk about Plato or Brian Greene (theoretical physicist) or brother Malcolm, but, unless they’re scientists or ‘experts’, they never really talk about any of them /> they just form Absolute Opinions. Ayn Rand is the only one most people really talk about, and that’s only because privileged people can use her philosophy as a scapegoat for their not caring about the rest of the world. Actually, maybe she did only care about herself…”

“She had good stories,” Palmer said.

Herb: “Yeah… She did.”

“Mr. Pot; #TheBranding™ story, please.”

“They made me do #TheBranding™. Randall was really drunk; Barry was being a Douchebag™, that’s pretty much the whole ‘physical’ story, and it sounds to me like you guys have already gotten the general gist of it. Even I don’t see how it goes much deeper than that. I mean, what would you do if a dude–so drunk off his ass that he was actually enjoying a Vanilla Ice track–threatened you, and tried to start a fight? Not to mention that he even said he was considering giving Insane Clown Posse a chance[30]! Of course, he was really drunk, so that complicates things, but I think the main thing to get out of all of it, especially now, is that, in my opinion, to blame ‘either-or’ just doesn’t do anything–as to do so only, realistically speaking, further incites violence–nor does saying it was all due strictly to external circumstances, and that there were no humans at fault.”

Gestarrè: “Then why are you here?”

“Heh,” and Herb chuckled to the ceiling before his smile quickly dissipated to nothingness. This digression was driven deep into his mind in a matter of milliseconds, completely overshadowing everything else he thought he’d learned to help him deal with that (this depression/anxiety/whatever-the-fuck makes people so seemingly unalterably miserable all the time #NineToFiveLivinThaDream), which would happen all the time /> every time. He reached for his sunglasses on the table, said a good Nothing as he #OverDramatically put them on, slowly and calmly, but certainly not confidently…

:’(

…

“The world,” he answered.

xxXOOoo

“You know I owe over thirty grand for college?” Herb began. “I don’t have a job anymore because I’m not good at talking to people or sucking up to authority when they treat me like dog shit, or like I’m some kind of slave or the dog’s balls-less reproductive set, or something; like my time deserves to be wasted, and that doing the exact same miserable thing all day every day is something that I should just accept as normal and somehow okay even though it strips me of any kind ability to be happy, and of any capability of feeling inspired to get myself out of that situation. Maybe this is me diving into emotions here–in fact, that’s certainly what it is–but, if emotions exist, is it right to completely throw aside any potential lessons learned from them? As if they didn’t exist? No one should have to live like a slave, let alone be treated like they should…

“I saw Barry’s eyes that night,” Herb continued. “I never thought he was a bad guy before, but...”

“But what?” Palmer asked.

“I dunno, he was… He wasn’t himself. No one could be like that, and be anything but not her or himself. That evil glare in his demeanor, that propelled sense of singularity of his ego only possible to define by the ‘moment’, but worn as a mask. That’s not natural, not within the human mind as an entity contained both within and outside itself, which is what it is as an ego. Or at least that’s how I see it. Er– Well, now that it’s been forced to become such a big deal, that is /> that little fucker, man–”

“You’re a very forgiving young man, Mr. Pot.” –Gest-arrè, still distracted.

Herb laughed again. This time, the smile stayed on his face for a little longer.

“You know I used to think that same thing,” Herb responded. “Back in high school, when people seemed to like me for no reason. First the words, and the compliments, and you think you understand the truth: the fact that people are generally helpful and loving of one another after the bullshit and the faces–the dirt. The thought that no matter how terrible something someone may do is, that maybe–underneath it all–that’s just that one person’s own fucked up way of helping, even if it’s the most fucked up *TheMostFuckedUp. That they really are just trying to help; they just aren’t well enough equipped, or they don’t have the right resources to know how to go about doing that…

“But then you realize. And you realize and you realize and you realize, and you can’t tell if this final realization is a result of your conditioning or of some Outside love, some otherworldly Demon or serenading voice from above–like David Bowie’s–or if it’s something that comes from within, and then the real realization comes #TheRealRealRealization: the under-standing that after so many words and thoughts and plans for a world you’re clearly never going to live in, you’ve already passed the brink, and now there’s no going back anymore /> and that then that’s it! There’s no point in actually doing or trying at anything, because we’re all just going to pass into obscurity at some point or another anyway! So fuck it!

“But who knows that better than the people who deal with it on a daily basis?! Who the fuck is anyone to tell another human being how to perceive death, or life for that matter?! Or how to live it?!?! If God resides inside, and simultaneously without, us all, along with the potential to hear her voice or teachings, then so does the devil, but there must be some way to tap into both, regardless of who you are as a person. Some way to see the dichotomy, and to make objective decisions regarding those deepest parts of our inner selves which have for so long laid dormant for the favor of that primal survival instinct always so dominant over intellectual evolution–”

Herb RETRACTED his head to the side, caused a loud CRACK! to reverberate from his neck–

“I’ve tried,” Herb pleaded to himself. “I’ve tried so hard, but it only ever made things worse! I may have tried the wrong way, or my attempts may have been in vain, but I’ve seen those people when they’re in love–when they feel love of, and in, that moment of absolute compassion and romance or bliss or whatever–and then they name it! They call for it, and pray to it, and act as though they can physically hold onto that single moment of feeling forever as if it’s some simple rule or code or secret to living a happy life, never to accept its evolution, never to accept its absolute and inevitable opposite, its necessarily needed opposite, needed or else, by definition, it can’t exist! You can’t know black without white, can’t see something moving without seeing something stationary behind it[31]–but then, after the feeling has passed, it’s nothing more than an event-memory!!! As if it’s blasphemy–a declaration of war against life–to see and to accept this process of subjects and opposites, or to care to learn something from it all in a place beyond words!–

“Because if it’s all nothing more than a circle, it is a circle that involves substance from both a deeply emotional and thoughtful place /> it’s a ruse!!!

“But what does it mean if you can’t come out of that joke? If you keep learning from it, or you have to try too hard to accept it, or so hard that that love then turns into nothing more than a bitter vice, or the cynic’s misunderstood vantage point from ‘below’? If you go on trying to relive the past, you never get new moments that you might want to relive in the future. If you get yourself stuck in that mindset of forward movement, and, worse, without even knowing er– maybe just not even caring about it if you ever did care–

“As if you’ve accepted it, and have come to know everything in the universe, yet still cannot come out of that ‘spin’ needed to get there until you’ve defined your ability to control it all, because without that sense of control, you’re floating alone in space trying to imply that you’re no longer alive and that you’d never wish you were in the first place because it’s all pointless factually speaking, from God’s point of view?!?!?!”

Herb had a small tear stroking his cheek :’(, even Gestarrè’s attention was grabbed–

=O

“When you love so much, and can feel the universe so potently, all its happiness, its history, potential, and pain and suffering…”

Herb stared blank-eyed like a dead goose knowing everyone Else as responsible for his own death.

…

Herb was clam again.

“Nothing and no one can control anything anymore, so fuck it. Time, life, death /> it’s all perspective, that’s all it is. Nothing more. Nothing less…

‘Nothing less…’

***

“He is very sick, but we can’t put our finger on what, exactly, he has.”

“Is he insane?”

“Oh yes, absolutely. I mean look at the guy.”

They stood peering through the one-way mirror into Herb’s padded cell: the two Special Agents along with Herb’s main nurse: Nurse Rebecca Pliny. Herb sat in the corner in a straightjacket–his face expressionless–and he didn’t move–not a fraction of a centimeter–except to push up the middle of his sunglasses in an egregious attempt to get them to rest more peacefully on his nose, which he would do very slowly, sad and totally depressed-like /> which however may have been because every time he’d try to go and do that he’d realize how literally impossible it was, he being constrained by a full-fledged, arms-completely-strapped-in straightjacket and all.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“Why is he here?” asked Gestarrè.

There was an awkward pause

><[32]

“Herb Pot’s had a tough life,” Pliny finally said.

“Something with his family, or his economic stability?”  –Palmer. “Still butt-hurt over Gore V. Bush?[33]–”

“No just…” and she looked down, dissipated.

“He’s been seeing one of our therapists, Dr. Wagner, for quite some time, since long before Herb was checked in yest-erday. Dr. Wagner had said that as far as his depression goes, he’s been about the same for about a year now, and he never thought for a moment throughout his ten year long relationship with him that Herb would be of any type of danger to anyone. Herb has had depression throughout his life, has an impressive record of panic attacks, if ‘impressive’ is nearly the right word to use there. He has no criminal record, no history of violence, nothing like that at all, not even close. Just a lot of evidence against it, in fact: like obsessions with Radiohead, Dr. King’s Symposium of Nonviolence[34], and the relationship between Marshall and Lily on the popular sitcom How I Met Your Mother. The worst thing he’s ever done is inch out a little too far to make a questionable left turn during rush hour, so that a man in an oncoming car, speeding to make his own upcoming left turn, could crash into him, almost killing Mr. Pot in the process, and could then claim suit to win over three-hundred grand thanks to a technicality.”

“Failure to yield,” Gestarrè said, eyes on his ‘scratchpad’, I think it was, maybe?

>><< 

“But then, a few days ago, and this is Herb’s story here, but…”

She paused…

o.O

And then continued (!!!)–

=O

“He said he started having hallucinations, that he was being visited by a group of very wise and all-knowing caterpillars, four or five of them–all wearing large top-hats and monocles–who would wake him up in the middle of the night, and convince him to sit in on their conversations about life and society in the basement of his house er–well, I guess it was really his parent’s house, but–”

“Caterpillars?” Palmer asked.

“Yeah, eight feet tall, that’s what he said; they could barely fit in under the ceiling. All smoking Cuban cigars, and they hated the Dallas Cowboys for some reason, with a pas- sion–”

“From what I understand, herb is quite a lover of Herb[35], somehow even more so than The Eagles™ (Legal)[36]. Could that have anything to do with it?” –Gestarrè.

“Marijuana alone could never cause that type of hallucination, and we’ve checked his blood for any trace of anything else.”

“You found nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why the padded room?”

“Well, anyone who comes in saying that he or she is having hallucinations of giant, all-powerful caterpillars in top hats, drinking Brandies™, and discussing global politics is extremely prone to a mental breakdown of some sort, that’s standard protocol. That’s not the reason he’s in here though.”

“What is the reason he’s in here?”

The nurse, once again, paused only this time, she made no movement, or obviously dis-heartening dis-pair.

“Herb once told me that I was far too pretty for makeup.”

The special agents didn’t how this was related, but they let it go out of sympathy (Palmer’s sympathy). Sixty-five-year old Nurse Pliny looked down with a heartfelt smile on her face.

:’)

“He said that no matter what the world and other people say, my real face is the one that matters, and what I choose to do with it.”

She looked back up, and through the glass window, at Herb, still smiling.

:)

“He insists he’s dangerous. He refuses to leave, mainly, he says, so his insurance company can do its goddamned job for once, but I know it to be much more than that.”

“So Herb Pot is here of his own accord?” Gestarrè (still completely, somehow, disinterested, and writing on his–

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Plain wooden plank?)

/>

“Yes,” Nurse Pliny replied, her smile now turned into a deep, permanent frown.

:((((

“At least as far as we know…”

IX

August 31st, 2014

11:22 p.m.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!”

“GAAAAHHHH!!!”

“Stay still!!!”

Herb was STICKIN’ #TheBrand™ to Randall’s upper thigh–

>’Psssssstttttttttghhhh’: WAS THE SOUND OF BURNING FLESH!! ==OO<

“FUCK you!!!–”

Randall PUNCHED Herb in the arm, the arm he was holding #TheBrand™ with, and then ran off like a crazy dog on bath salts, forcing Herb to drop #TheBrand™ on the ground to more affectively turn his attention to nursing his manly bicep so as to theoretically avoid more pain (it didn’t help). If not already apparent, or for a needed emphasis on what was really important here, Randall was fairly drunk™–

Quietly, Herb, still nursing his arm, mumbled: “Ow…”

“BAHAHAHAHA!” the peanut gallery howled–

“It hurts!” Herb yelled at them. He was very upset (not really :/). There was a loud SPLASH as Randall jumped in the pool–

“Is he supposed to be jumping in there?” Herb asked. “Won’t that fuck up #TheBrand™?–”

 “No you idiot,” Barry interrupted. “There’s a shit-ton of chlorine in there, it’ll clean it out–”

“Well, I know that for tattoos–”

“That’s the ocean, dude. Don’t go in the ocean.” –Al.

“Oh, right.”

A few more minutes of quiet shit-talking later, Randall got out of the pool, walked aggressively (sloppily) back over to the group, and took another quick shot off the table before–

“I mean, what a fuckin’ loser, what kind of nerd would get his gamer tag #Branded™ on himself?–”

“Yo, what was that, Barry?!–”

Randall slipped on the concrete, fell on the ground like a drunken idiot. Everyone laughed. Randall stood up, RAN up to Al–

“WHAT THA FUCK, MAN?!” Randall said, and he got real close, all up in Al’s grill like he was about to make out with him or something gross like that #DudesOnDudesIsSimplyNo-tCoolDudeNotCoolAtAll (Prudes)–

“Get #Branded™ !” Randall yelled. “Get #Branded™ BITCH!!!” and he PUSHED him, but Al was a decently smart guy it would seem (apparently, smarter than most).

“Dude, why would I get your gamer tag #Branded™ on me?” he said. “I’m not R-Man, you’re R-Man!”

“That’s am.. –mmvb /> good point!” Randall turned around, looked at House, pointed at him–

“You!” he CRIED! But House just replied: “Nah man, this is my house, I can’t have my parents knowing I got #Brand-  ed™–”

“Touché! Hershel?!–”

“What?! Dawg? Are you serious?! House’s excuse didn’t even make any sense–”

“What the FUCK do you think Hershel, you FUCKIN’ PUSSY?! Get #Branded™!!!”

“Dude, no way–” Hershel said, backing up with his hands raised. “I’m not doin’ that–”

“YOU FUCKIN’ BITCH™, DUUUUDE! YOU A BAD-ASS OR WHAT?!–”

“No. No, I’m not a badass,” Hershel replied, still backing up, hands raised even higher now (there may have been a slight laugh behind his tone). “You’re way more like, badass than me. Like, you’re the most badass, *TheMostFuckingBadassFuck-ingEver, I could never be so much of a badass to have done what you just did.”

“Oh, alright.”

Clearly affected by this newfound infinite supply of self-optimism, and the never-ending unchangeable confidence it so irreversibly inferred in our subject #TheMostOptimism *The-Most *TheMost, Randall turned slowly around, but, as he did so, once again with the help of the concrete pole still holding up House’s house (or, rather, House’s parents’ house), he accidentally saved himself from falling over, once again, as a result of his oblique drunkenness–

 “AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-H–” Barry laughed/reacted (…like a dolphin? :^{|}). The laugh was obvious, though it wasn’t meant to be…

…

“You think you’re hardcore, Barry?”

Randall now spoke softly, and with a confidence also prevalent in his still very sloppy walk–a confidence of an almost *Presidential quality *SoPresidential (;D), yet still not overwhelming to the brains of the masses (:H)–as he slowly moved in closer to his offender (Barry).

“What the fuck do you think?” Barry replied. The group quieted.

O.O

“Then get #Branded™–”

“No, that’s fuckin’ stupid, you drunk idiot–”

“Oh, I’m a drunk idiot?”

“Yea. You drank over two thirds of that Wild Blue Vodka® handle all by yourself. Shit’s disgusting–”

“Who you callin’ a pussy, biiiiitch??–”

Randall danced his head in closer, but Herb got in the middle–

“Dude–”

“Get the FUCK offa me, dawg–”

Herb put his hands up, backed away, as Randall moved in closer to Barry, who was now almost totally pinned up against a foundation supporter pole holding up House’s house (or, more accurately, the house that House’s parents owned and maintained (for the most part)–)

“You think you’re #Hardcore, Barry? You, with your leather boots, and your sinful heavy metal music??? It’s bullshit. All bullshit. Hip-Hop is the way to go: Biggie, Talib, Pac, Karen Carpenter, Ol’ Dirty Bastard /> Kinda like you: little dirty bastard, wannabe-hardcore, black-metal douchebag Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch Bitch...”

He echoed that last part as if in a dream (===O)–

Randall and Barry were now almost nose-to-nose–

“I’m not getting fucking #Branded™, you fuck–”

“YOU THINK YOU’RE #HARDCORE?! GET #BRAN-DED™!!!!–”

“You can’t even tell what yours is supposed to say!–”

“AGAIN!”

Randall turned around, his hands FAR above his head in excitement. “Let’s go!!!”

Hershel was already nursing #TheBrand™ in the fire–

“Alright!” he said with enthusiasm. “Herb?!”

“Oh, no, I’m not–”

/>

Hershel handed the freshly heated Brand™ to a piquantly held-tightly-by-his-shoulders Herb (fixed to his space by the hysterically laughing House and Al /> respectively ;), with an anxious Randall laying on his side right next to him, only: in his boxers this time (=D)–ready to be #Branded™ on his other leg, holding said leg with both of his hands, his eyes closed TIGHT, and ready to embrace the heat #AmericaIsInHeat. When Hershel gave Herb the flaming clothes hanger, Herb had no choice: he closed his eyes, and STUCK #TheBrand™ to Randall’s skin as hard as he could…

The smell penetrated his nostrils like Hell showing itself specifically, **in-detail-edly[37], so bad that Herb thought this like a crazy person, right then and there, even though he had no time to really hold #TheBrand™ down (or, therefore, to get a good whiff of the smell), in the first place, as Randall immediately stood up and RAN around the backyard a few times like a drunken fool–

Everyone in the group was laughing hard: harder now than ever before in the hangout area under the deck of House’s housed #House (house, house, house–).

Everyone, that is…

Save for Barry.

======OOOOOOOOO

Randall came back SWEATING and STAGGERING worse than ever. He looked kind of like a drunk Courtney Love at that one awards show in the early 90s where–

“What’s up, BARRY?! Who’s hardcore now MOTHER-FUCKER!”

“What are you saying now?–”

“Get #Branded™ HONKY!“ and Randall PUSHED Barry hard, forced Barry to STAGGER to his feet in order to ensure his not falling over–

Barry didn’t like that very much.

>=H[38]

 “Yo, don’t fuckin’ push me, dawg,” he replied slowly, shaking his head, moving aggressively in.

“Don’t fuckin’ push me, man,” Barry repeated.

“You’re not #Hardcore,” Randall said back, also moving in closer. “You think you’re #Hardcore? Well, you’re fuckin’ not–”

Randall PUSHED him again, so that Barry, not being wasted or in the slightest sense drunk at all (just really high), pushed him right back, sending Randall’s face straight into the concrete pole holding up House’s house, or, as I might prefer to say (I think?), his mom and dad’s house… respectively–

>Blood<

“Ooooh.”

The laughter died off as Randall WENT in for another PUNCH /> but Barry was quick to dodge it. It was pretty easy for him. Randall was slow, sloppy, and off-aim. Then Barry PUNCHED Randall HARD, right in the nose–

>More blood<

“Hey, come on, man!” Herb screamed. “He’s obviously wasted!–”

“He started it!–”

Al trailed Barry away to get him off Randall’s ass, and to try to calm him down as Herb and House leaned down to try and help Randall back to his feet.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Randall said with his left hand holding onto his bleeding nose and mouth.

He stood back up.

“Herb’s right,” he said. “Barry. Barry, dude.”

Holding out his right hand as if to shake, Randall seemed genuine.

=O[39]

“Yea?” Barry asked him. “We cool? You fuckin’ drunk slob?”

“Yea, man, we cool,” Randall replied, and Barry went in for the shake.

It seemed like a good idea at the time (xo). It even felt like the climax of the night was over, like everything was all going to go back to being unique, special /> but it wasn’t. Until that moment, it’d felt like just another normal night where somebody just-so-happened to commit to being physically #Branded™ by an old, rusty clothes-hanger–with no medical or experienced expertise present (as would have clearly been a waste anyway)–and was therefore–#Branded™–and subse-quently super stoked on it as any person just having been #Branded™ with a molding clothes hanger made in 1984 would be, but Randall had other plans. Apparently, no matter what seems or feels to be happening, the world always has a way of surprising you, even when, after the surprise, you look back and it really wasn’t all that surprising–

>Randall’d tricked him!<

Barry felt his hand pulled in, quickly decided not to let Randall get the last laugh! After easily dodging Randall’s punch (if you could call it that), Barry let his left arm hurl to hit Randall in the middle of his already bloody face–

He passed out cold, fell, hitting his head on yet another concrete pole holding up House’s parent’s house, and then, to make things worse, he fell STRAIGHT into the fire pit, knocking the thing over, as well as the case of awesome, 10.5% ABV (or: ‘Alcohol By Volume xD) ‘Boogie Down to South Central’ imperial IPA that House had just recently unveiled as a surprise for everyone to enjoy (they ran out of ‘Spicy Mexican’ (as everyone always does </3)). House really was a very nice guy–

Randall’s palm caught flame #HisArmCaughtFlame!, but, luckily, Al, Herb and House were able to pull him away, and put it out, in time, so that the rest of him didn’t catch as well–

“What the fuck, Barry?!” Al yelled. Herb poured some water on the fire out of the bottle they were using as an ashtray for cigarettes–

House screamed: “The beer is destroyed!”

“Well, he shoulda watched his fuckin’ mouth!”

“Dude, you’re paying for this,” House said. “This case alone was a hundred and two dollars–”

“Man, fuck you. I ain’t paying you a hundred dollars-–”

House: “A hundred and two!–”

“A hundred and two dollars just because Randall got too fuckin’ drunk to realize how much of a fuckin’ burnout he’s turned into–”

“We’re all burnouts, you bloody cunt-rag!!!–”

“A hundred and two dollars for a case of beer?” Al asked. “How do they make this, personally with Lauryn Hill and Beyoncé on the premises?!–”

Herb: “Lauryn Hill’s still alive?–”

“If only–”

“Alright, everyone’s paying for it!” House interrupted. “That’s $20.25 each unless you guys are gonna clean all this shit up, in which case I might take off the quarter–”

“Hey, FUCK YOU BARRY!!!! YOU AIN’T #HARD-CORE!!!!!!!!!!”

Randall came back to consciousness, tried fairly unsuccessfully to stand himself up–

“You need to calm down,” Herb tried to reason. “You’re extremely injured right now–”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, CUCKHOLD, CRYING UN-HARDCORE BITCH!!–”

“Alright guys, I think I’m out.”

…

o.OOOO[40]

“I got work in the morning,” Hershel continued.

…

…

Herb broke the silence: “Dude–”

“See ya, pals!” and Hershel was off! Up the stairs, and on the drive home!

=DD

Randall was back to his feet, and back to taunting Barry–

“You’re not #Hardcore, man!!!!”

“Randall, you are wasted!!!”

“Not so shwasted to forget that you’re NOT HARD-CORE!!–”

House: “Alright, I think it’s time for you to come in.”

“Yea, okay.”

House helped Randall to the inside of the home. It was almost like Randall had an on/off button only accessible to those who smiled and had a great time all the time.

=D[41]

Herb: “Don’t forget to give him a trashcan!–”

House: “Fuck you, troll!–”

>Door closes<

Al and Herb stayed, and looked, amazed-yet-accidentally, at Barry. Eventually, after quite the awkward silence, Al picked up a roll of paper towels off the bar-top, and started to clean some of the blood off the concrete structure poles holding up House’s house /> or: the house at which House resided, but was actually owned and paid for by his parents #MomAndDad–

Herb joined him.

Barry: “Man, fuck this shit,” and then Barry just left.

…

…..

Al and Herb stood and stared on in amazement (like, even more so than before).

><[42]

“Did he really just do that?” Al asked Herb.

Herb sighed, and replied: “Yea, I guess he did.”

Indeed, Barry was gone.

:(

“What a fuckin’ toolbag.” –Al.

“True dat–”

“Alright, I think he’s finally asleep.”

House came out of the sliding glass door after putting Randall to nap-time, and was appalled to find what he did.

“Where’s Hershel?!” he yelled.

“He left,” Al answered. “You were here for that–”

“Where’s Barry?!”

“He left too.” –Herb.

“When?!”

“Just now.”

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

Herb: “Yea dude–”

Al: “Fuckin’ bullshit, right?”

House sighed, looked around at the situation.

“Man, what a bitch,” he said with a light laugh #Calming-TheSituationWithBeingCalm. “Thanks for starting to clean up the blood.”

“Yea, no problem,” Al replied.

House: “Yea, I think we’re gonna have to pay for this table too.”

For a moment, they all stopped cleaning and looked at the large array of huge and tiny glass shards scattered all over the ground. It was a very, very, very nice table.

“This is gonna be like, two hundred for each of us,  easily–”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘each of us’?” Al asked.

“I mean we all need to pay for this. And the beer–”

“Dude, I didn’t do anything,” Al said.

 “So? You were here. Plus: now you have a great story to tell girls. For you, that alone is worth at least a hundred bucks–”

“This isn’t a great story to tell girls, all it says is that I have stupid friends–”

“Not all of us–”

“Shut up, Herb–”

“Troll–”

“Uhhh, there’s no reason to be a felch, bro,” Herb said back to Al, and then shifted his attention the other way, towards House, and said: “Al’s right though: you’re rich, you can afford it–”

“FUCK you, you FUCKING piss-chugging fucktoy slaptard, that’s not the FUCKING point–”

“I’ll help you clean up,” Al started. “But bar nothing less than me vomiting on your nice-ass couch in there am I paying you any money for this crazy escapade.”

“Dude, you’re helping to pay for this. Get over it.”

“No I ain’t, dawg. Fuuug daaat sheeeiiiit–”

“Herb is doing his part, right, Herb?”

“Man, I got a dog to feed, and my company’s CEO needs to pay for his fifth vacation home, I can’t afford to give you or the doctor saving my life that kind of money–”

“You fucking moochers are paying me right now! I don’t care what you say /> I got two dogs! This is fucked up, what you’re doing, and you’re not copping out here, you fucking lazy asses–”

“What about Hershel and Barry?!” Al asked.

“I’ll get to them later–”

Herb: “Don’t forget Randall–”

For this ironic, quick, split second here, the talking stopped, and everyone could hear–very loud, and very obviously–Randall’s HEAVY and CHUNKY vomiting on the couch from inside. Herb had insisted that House give him a trashcan when he put him in there, but House, #Intelligently, didn’t listen.

><[43]

 “I told you to put a trashcan in there…”

…

……..…

House with his eyes closed and breathing heavily: “I don’t think you guys realize how expensive this is all going to be.”

“But–”

“Very. Expensive.”

“House, I think Al is just–”

“It’s gonna be very, very… expensive…”

…

“… Dude–”

…

…

“Like… super duper expensive…”

…

…

……………………………………………

…

“$($$)ssshit–”

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[1] *Bitch

[2] ‘Franatically’: see glossary on pp. 279

[3] As stated in the Guide to Special Symbols: these trademark symbols are ALWAYS used for satirical effect–meaning: NOT for legal reasons (or: IT IS NOT LEGAL™)–unless otherwise noted (it being followed by a bold ‘(Legal)’ sign)

[4] Converge. Jane Doe. Equal Vision Records. 2001

[5] “Each year from approximately September 1 to March 1, a large-scale hunt of dolphins takes place in the small village of Taiji, Japan, as made famous by the 2010 Academy Award-winning documentary “The Cove.” During this period, fisherman, or more appropriately, dolphin hunters, utilize drive hunt techniques to herd large numbers of dolphins to shore, resulting in their capture or death.” Taiji Facts/Frequently Asked Questions. Ric O’Barry’s Dolphin Project. 2019. Web. 21 May 2019. https://www.dolphinproject.com/campaigns/save-japan-dolphins/frequently-asked-questions/

[6] So surprisingly…

[7] So interestingly…

[8] Malcolm X. Edited by Alex Haley. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Random House Publishing Group. 1964

[9] Golding, William. Lord of the Flies. Capricorn Printings. 1954

[10] So unsuccessful…

[11] Mrs. and Mr.? Mr. and Mrs.? #DoesItReallyFuckingMatter? #SorryForOffendingYou #SorryNotSorry(PFT!),|,;D,|,;DDDD

[12] Swift, Taylor. ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’. Red. Big Machine Records. 2012

[13] The 2015 Baltimore riots, starting on April 18th and technically ending on May 3rd (when the curfew was lifted), sparked by the police killing of an unarmed civilian named Freddie Gray, who was arrested on April 12th and died in police custody on April 19th. Over 350 businesses were damaged or destroyed, 113 police officers were injured, and 486 civilians were arrested during the riots. Please see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2015_Baltimore_protests (*Joke) and more references listed in the ‘Bibliography’ section on pp. 285 of this book, for more information

[14] Charles, Larry. Director. Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. Written by Sacha Baron Cohen, Anthony Hines, Peter Baynham, Dan Mazer, Todd Philips. Starring Sacha Baron Cohen. 20th Century Fox. 2006

[15] OMG

[16] The Notorious B.I.G. ‘Big Poppa’. Ready to Die. Bad Boy Records. 1994

[17] Everyone knows: Pantera is better…

[18] Like, if ‘Allah’ were a ‘man’, and he asked a terrorist to suck his dick, would the terrorist do it?

[19] Fuckin’ idiots, those people (teenagers); irreparable idiots! x!

[20] Crosby, Stills, and Nash. ‘Our House’. Deja-Vu. Atlantic Records. 1970

[21] I am admittedly unsure if people of Mexican decent are specifically stereotyped as being good drinkers (isn’t everyone???)

[22] Diabolic. ‘Twelve Shots’. Liar and a Thief. Viper Records. 2010

[23] So incredulously…

[24] So sincerely…

[25] So pristine…

[26] Varg Vikernes is the leader/only member of the black metal band, Burzum. He’s also killed a decent amount of people (any number of people killed is a decent amount), burned down a bunch of churches in Norway for strictly religious reasons, and is considered one of the bigger misogynists/white supremacists in the Norwegian black metal scene (also, ironically, arguably its best musician (VERY arguably)). He’s a complicated figure, and this joke should not be considered an endorsement of his candidacy for president (of anything), or anything else (sorry, Varg ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

[27] Ew

[28] What as asshole #TheWorstOffense #Names… #Ugh!

[29] Swift, Taylor. ‘Begin Again’ Red. Big Machine Records. 2012

- We do not have time to get into this here

[30] How dare he?!?!?!?! #JuggaloLivesMatter

[31] More complicated than black vs. white?

[32] So awkward…

[33] Everything always comes down to Florida! #WereDoomed

[34] King, Martin Luther Jr. Strength to Love, Fontana Books, 1969, Reprinted in Fount Paperbacks, 1977

[35] This unforgivable ‘grammar mistake’ is used for a reason… What could the reason be, I wonder?

[36] In Philly?! BULLSHIT!!!!!! XXPPPP

[37] ‘Indetailedly’ (see glossary on pp. 279)

[38] Grrrr

[39] So genuine…

[40] Like, fo realz?

[41] How strange…

[42] Like, what a dick

[43] So intelligently…

- #WhatAFuckinIdiot