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Albert and the Underwear Man
by nate
Dress Code
by nate
by Corinn
Dance for me
by nate

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Reading is fun

Dress Code
by nate
Sunday, August 8, 2004

Brush up against me again and I will kill you

page: 3

Illuminati man walks around me, looks at the others on the street. He nods at them. He sets his coffee down on the edge of the garbage can where I'm dining and gestures to me to pick it up. He looks back around at the others on the street and nods again to them.

I swear he nods at them! Of course he nods at them, and they nod back. I know they do this. I see it. I see him, I look at him, and deliberately knock the coffee to the ground splashing his shining wing tip shoes, filling his cuffs with brown liquid. I wave my hand at him as if to hit him. He rocks back on his heels at the feint.

"The nerve!" Exclaims slave girl as he walks towards his minions.

I know they are thinking I am an unhappy, ungrateful, and untrustworthy, piece of shit, lowlife. I know they think I am less than human. I know they believe they could never come to this. They would be wrong. I matter. I count. And, I understand their system. And, yes they could come to this.

This guy, this master controller who offered me his coffee—probably drugged the coffee so they could take me away. He's a prick.

I left my bank vice-presidency because of men like him. Pricks. His type, his blue striped, red tie wearing type, they wanted me to join up. I know that's what they wanted. I heard them. I heard them through the closed doors of the conference room. I heard them through the ducts that lead into the bathroom. I heard them in the elevator. My hearing is excellent. I had it checked when my so called colleagues said they weren't hearing the same things I said that I was hearing. I had it checked when my wife even joined in with them and told me that I was hearing "things."

The things I was hearing were things they didn't want me to hear. That's what the things were. I went to my doctor and asked him to check my hearing.

"Your hearing's fine," he told me. Then he let the cat out of the bag.

My doctor said my thoughts about clothing color and control issues were a "medication problem." He said that I should consider going back on the lithium I'd been taking since I turned fourteen. He said that my childhood could come back to haunt me and take over my adult life if I wasn't mindful of the medication. He said my wife was concerned.

I said, "fuck you, doc" and threw the prescription sheet he filled out for me into the trash. Fucking blue tie wearing doctor.

I never went back. I walked directly into the department store downstairs from the doctor's and bought ten gray sweat suits, fifteen pairs of white underwear, fifteen pairs of white gym socks, and one black cotton towel. I bought a gray duffle bag and white Chuck Taylor sneakers. I walked to the Laundromat down the street from the store and ran the underwear, shoes, and socks through the washer in hot water with the black towel and changed into a sweat suit while they dried. Three other people came in dressed in gray sweats—every one of them nodded and smiled at me. As if I needed that kind of confirmation. I didn't, but it was good somehow just the same.

Back in the queue of trash cans and dumpsters I ignore them. I ignore my doctor. I ignore their colors. I ignore their power. My doctor is one of them. He's probably watching me right now. He has probably loaded that fresh biscuit with whatever the fuck it is he wants me to take as "medication." I spit it out and puke towards the feet of the next person I see.

"Jesus, buddy," he's wearing all black, the outfit reserved for their priests. Black pants, black shoes, black jacket, black leather vest, black shirt—everything but the collar. "Do you need help?"

"Fuck off, priest!" I wave a hand at him and turn my back.

I grumble at him; actually I snarl. It's an art to snarl like that and I am a snarling artiste. I find the effectiveness of that snarl is greatly enhanced when vomit is still on one's cheek. I snarl and I shuffle off, because that's what we gray clad folk do. We shuffle off to the next grouping of dumpsters and garbage cans. And we vomit. We vomit a lot.

I find myself suddenly with a handful of someone's smashed memories tossed idly into an aluminum trash can. Bric-a-brac tossed away thoughtlessly. It's a porcelain doggie with big floppy ears and a furry tail. It's broken in bits and carefully wrapped in tissue paper and tin foil. I re-assemble it carefully on top of the ledge of a neighboring dumpster, holding it together with chewing gum from under the lip of a nearby bench. I pocket the tin foil and pass on the trinket and its re-assembled parts.

I eye the big aluminum can behind the dumpster with something akin to lust. I am thinking it would provide excellent protection from marauding controllers' thoughts while I sleep. I'm thinking it will keep my thoughts clear for the first time in a while. I'm thinking I need to find more of them.

I'll slit it down the side and unfold the can into a rolled tent liner. My last aluminum trash can was stolen by the guy who lived alone under the US 1 overpass. A lot of good it did that prick. He's dead now and I don't know where they took the can, but here's another one given like a gift from God. It's painted with dark gray letters. Good. Gray is good. It says "Dry Trash Only."

That'd be me. It's like it was made for me.

I'll be back for this can after dark. I'll be back after it's hard for them to tell just who it is that picks up the can. I'll slit it and sleep without so many damn thoughts being injected into my head every single, fucking night. Jesus Christ when will they let up?

My coffee is gone. I need one more cup today. I need the one more cup of coffee and I need to find a warm place to fix the aluminum liner in my hat. Fuck them.

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