Chapter 2

Time is running out for me.

But, time has been running out for me since I’ve been interred here.

Humans are not omniscient beings.

We are not demigods.

There may be a time and a place four our death, but we are not privy to those details.

Even if we receive a super strain of a communicable infection, we still don’t know the exact date of our demise.

It could be days or hours, but what day and what hour exactly?

And the same goes for me.

I don’t know the day and the hour of my death.

I could be alive even after the Long Count calendar runs out.

I could be alive in both the Age of Pisces and the Age of Aquarius.

Alive, and suffering from severe vitamin deficiencies.

I’ve been vomiting horribly because I’ve been locked away for so long without sunlight.

I can barely write this memoir because it feels like my hand bones are cracking into smaller pieces.

A hanging 60-watt soft white incandescent bulb is not a suitable replacement for sunlight.

It’s like I said about the lemon wedge in my daily water ration.

I should have stayed home!

I should have conformed to the whims of my masters!

My skin is spot ridden, my gums are bleeding, and I have pus draining from my eyeballs.

I am in rough f*****g shape!

And I don’t think I’ll make it out alive.

Because of malnutrition mostly, but it could also be due to some sick method humans haven’t devised yet themselves.

But my captors…are…not…human!

I have no idea what they are!

They are reptilian in their facial structure, yet they are the size of an average human being.

And that’s what I saw!

I saw the face of an alien!

We’ve been attacked from the inside out!

You may think I’m nuttier than a Payday bar, but the truth remains so.

I saw an alien being, and then I immediately disappeared from the grid.

And I have to wonder, what am I to them really?

How can I be a threat?

The modern media has so thoroughly raped the s**t out of UFO believers that they are the laughing stock of the general populace.

Of modern society itself.

Even worse than the oversexed hyper-nerd geniuses we’ve seen on television.

The kinds that populate chess clubs, science labs and mathematics classrooms.

We’ve been told to think that freely because television lies to us, but that message emanated from the realm of television itself.

The master of doublethink, most likely the Reptoids themselves, fed us that disinformation or misinformation or whatever else you can call it.

Therefore, we believe what the b**b tube tells us and if the b**b tubes says aliens do not exist, then aliens do not exist.

We truly are b***s then.

B***s that are bigger than the ones possessed by Scarlett Johansson or Amanda Seyfried.

But I’m not a b**b.

I never was a b**b.

I was a soul of depth, a soul of intelligence, a soul of class.

But I was also a soul full of death, darkness and despair.

At least the death, darkness and despair I reveled in had some kind of limit.

It was concealed within the bounds of my intellect.

But, now I have truly ingested a s**t sandwich.

I’m locked in this f*****g prison cell suffering from avitaminosis.

I mentioned beforehand that I didn’t find the resistance, but that the resistance had found me.

I lied, because I never knew of an active resistance movement.

If there was any kind of resistance, then it must have been squelched somewhere in the planning stages.

Reptilian creatures, I would think, would have eyes and ears everywhere.

They are the masters of the 1984 plotline.

They probably devised the 1984 plotline and beamed it directly into Orwell’s brain.

All I did was stumble and fall in, like Homer Simpson does in every negative event he encounters.

Only I’m not Homer Simpson.

I can’t pull a Homer at all.

I have the luck of the Irish.

Only I mean that I have the real luck of the Irish.

The kind of luck that gets them anally raped by Viking marauders.

It all started when a hyper-conservative Army E-5 managed to convert a common streetwalker to his religious perspective.

More like he paid for the privilege.

My parents were not always turned on religiously during the early years of their relationship.

But, by the time I was able to tie my shoes and write my first name, my parents were in lock-step with the Calvinist camp of Christian living.

I was like a kid caught with dice back in sixteenth-century Geneva.

They believed in not sparing the rod, and they used other objects to assert the authority God had given them.

A 36-inch waist length leather belt.

A one-half inch wooden cutting board a with thick handle.

A chrome-plated metal spatula.

One time, I pissed my father off so bad because I wanted to watch MTV.
Music-F*****g-Television!

Not exactly an event that would increase my brain power, but not exactly an event to lose one’s cool over.

Yet, he severely bruised my a*s with a hardcover, large-print King James Version Bible.

Talk about my father showing me the love of God by his own actions.

God so loved the Israelites that he slew a million Ethiopians on the battlefield.

That’s how God shows his love for people that torque him off.

But God even allows his own beloved sons to be slaughtered.

Somewhere in the Old Testament, God raises an army of 400,000 Israelites to bring His Judgment upon the rogue tribe of Benjamin.

And in the process, on two separate occasions, 26,000 Benjamites slew 40,000 Israelites on the battlefield.

18,000 casualties and 22,000 casualties on two consecutive days.

Goes to show that God uses his chosen people as pin cushions or punching bags whenever He needs to prove something.

Now matter how outlandish it appears to our puny, misfiring minds.

Oh f**k, God screams, the plagues and famines failed!

Got to use that military might that somehow magically appeared from thin air!

The love of God is the love of a temperamental five-year old.

And, when unleashed, can f**k the world up for generations.

And my father and members of his ilk believe that s**t wholly.

If you are set into a gruesome battle because somebody was told by God to go fight against a nation, then you feel like you’re blessed even though you may be slaughtered.

I guess living in God’s blessing in the best thing to do, even if you get a .308 bullet between the eyes.

No wonder some people think believing in God is a delusion.
Imagine growing up in that kind of home situation.

Beaten mercilessly on the a*s with a thick KJV Bible.

Being slapped with an orange-filled sock about the midsection because the bruising was minimized.

Being subjected to random searches of my domicile for contraband.

Like porn, drug paraphernalia, or atheistic literature.

Even a simple deck of 52 playing cards to play Gin Rummy or Go Fish.

That s**t could land me the beat down of the century, or the millennium, or even for all the epochs.

On top of that, I was schooled in the Biblical ways.

Mandatory scripture readings.

Mandatory theology lessons.

Mandatory tests of knowledge.

My father thought, had always believed that The End was at hand.

And he made sure I was ready.

I was his only son, and his only child.

I was to be a foot soldier in God’s Army when the Lord came on Judgment Day.

Lord have f*****g mercy on me!

That’s what happens when your father uses his military experience to edify his own distorted theology.

He creates a son who so loathes all ideas and things Christians and inevitably falls prey to a sinful spirit.

My father was not the brightest bulb produced by God’s light bulb factory.

And neither was my mother.

My mother followed every word my father belched from his reverse fart vent without qualm or query.

My mother was the teacher in the family.

She basically traded one set of oral talents for another set of oral talents.

She decided to home-school me after I came home from preschool early because a girl and I played an atypical version of show-and-tell.

It’s really called You Show Me Yours and I’ll Show You Mine.

And from then on, like a male offspring condemned to live in ancient Sparta, I was inducted into God’s army.

Without qualm and without query.

As I became older, the spirit of rebellion began to set in.

And because my parents believed it was a spirit of darkness and despair, they tried to exorcise it as best they could.

They locked me in utter darkness for hours on end.

They gave me bathtub baptisms against my will.

They strapped me to my bed and held lengthy vigils.

And, as if anybody is truly surprised, those methods failed.

Bruised, broken, and even malnourished, I made my escape.

I went prodigal.

Except I knew innately that the Parable of the Prodigal Son was inherently bogus.

The God of the Bible is the ultimate firebrand.

He is not some kind of cuddly, easygoing, happy-go-lucky God that can be won over by simply accepting the sacrifice of Jesus Christ at face value.

And my parents, especially my father, knew that.

And they prepared me for that reality.

Being a Christian means enduring harsh punishment here on Earth to have eternal reward in Heaven.

The by-fire baptism I received in my domicile was to prepare me for the harsh reality of earthen living and the even harsher reality of eternal hellfire.

No matter what, mother and father told me, nothing is worse than Hell!

Just follow the rules, they also told me.

So says the wellness chart.

And eventually, I couldn’t handle the heat of the home fires anymore.

And I knew my parents would never take me back.

Hence, why I made the prodigal remark earlier.

So, what does a penniless prodigal son do for immediate, short term capital?

What else but live the life his mother led prior to her encountering my father.

Should I elaborate here?

Should I not?

Should I even care?

Maybe this memoir will somehow escape the notice and the clutches of the Reptilian horde, but be discredited by both real human critics and fake human critics alike.

Maybe this memoir will be found by the Reptoids, be heavily redacted and edited and published under a garish pseudonym as part of yet another typical disinformation campaign against alien believers.

Maybe this memoir will be atomized into zillions of particles by the Reptoids because of the truth contained in these pages.

What the f**k, there is no point to existence anyway.

I whored my from one depressing s**t splat to the next.

I sucked way too many too count.

I fucked too many to count.

I found my fair share of disturbing, distorted, nether parts.

I’ve even been cornholed once or twice to get someplace else.

And wherever I ended up at, I usually ate a single meal and found myself sleeping in a cardboard box or a homeless shelter.

And then I’d repeat the process the next day.

Like an addict searching for the next fix, hopefully being the one that brings the dragon home.

But that process wasn’t the only piece of repetition in my life.

I was ensuring my legacy.

The legacy of repeating a parent’s mistakes.

Now you can see why I’m such a nihilistic m**********r.

Except for the fact that I’m not an incestuous freak.

So far as I can remember, my ever-so-loving maternal forebear told me that sin would be visited upon the descendants up unto the fifth generation.

Maybe the idea of original sin isn’t the pile of manure that I believed it was.

To be honest, I can’t say for sure how high the sexual sin goes back up the family tree but I know that my mother had a reputation on par with Mary Magdalene, or at least Heidi Fleiss.

And I know my father was something of a lothario himself.

According to my father’s own diary, he would need servicing from the wrong side of town about three times a week.

And on one of those trips, he met a woman who was an undercover vice cop.

And then he wound up being tried, convicted, sentenced and without a military career.

And he was sent to therapy.

The kind of therapy that spreads the God Virus.

My mother also kept a diary of her experiences, and from what I can remember, it mirrors my own experiences.

She traveled around the country from one town to the next, hitching and blowing, riding and f*****g.

And she finally settled into a city with a large army base.

And she made good money as a do-anything hot child.

And then her last john was an undercover vice cop.

And she wound tried, convicted and sentenced, but she didn’t have a career to worry about.

But, she was sent to therapy anyway.

Again, the kind of therapy that spreads the God Virus.

And that’s how they met I guess.

Strangely enough, my father was a hyper-conservative Christian fundamentalist who was a consistent self-loathing hypocrite.

On par with Jimmy Swaggart or Ted Haggard.

Or maybe nothing is ever that strange.

He was primed from the outset of his pathetic existence.

He was born and raised into a home that preached the oxymoronic concepts of God’s love and Christian tolerance.

Also known as Calvinist Christianity.

Also known as the cult atmosphere of death and hatred.

Lucky for them, my mother and father were both first time offenders and they had to have straight careers after the fact.

My 30-year old father worked as a dishwasher at a truck stop.

My 22-year old mother worked as a maid for a mobile cleaning service.

And of course, two sexually heated beings in a support group get to hear the most salacious of details.

And when the heat rises, the juices are flowing.

And you know the result of this digression.

And, like the typical religiously motivated hypocrites they are, they buried themselves in the Calvinist ethos and rhetoric they came to embrace.

The Protestant work ethic became their opium, their crutch.

And they obscured the truth from their own son.

And for good reason because I wouldn’t ever relay my sexual exploits to my offspring.

That is child abuse, no matter what anybody says.

The truth f*****g sucks.

It’s not pretty.

It’s f*****g unvarnished.

And it’s madness to tell your children about your own sexual misadventures.

But it’s also madness to restrain one’s children into a state of hatred and rebellion.

Therefore, I hate my parents!

Thus, that’s another reason why I didn’t return home to them.

I stayed a prodigal.

I wanted freedom.

I wanted movement.

I wanted to make mistakes.

I wanted to live without fear.

And then the irony occurs.

But it’s not a plot twist, but an expected outcome.

From one prison to another.

From one set of chains to another.

That is the story of my life.

And that’s the overall story for humanity.

We, the pathetic human race.

Awaiting the day God or the Universe will go all apocalyptical on us.

But, that’s already happening I guess.

The Reptoids have taken over, and they probably invented this plot line as well.

The one where the prodigal son believes that life has no meaning at all, and he winds up in the same place that his parents were so many years earlier, which ends up further edifying his own point of view.

So very original, I must say.

Except this version has taken on a twist of its own.

Of the alien variety.

Besides that, the punishment aspect of this story remains true to its origin.

The punishment may truly be deserved after all.

I am guilty of being a sinful creature, and I guess I’ve earned two death sentences because of it.

I hear the footfalls once again.

They are coming in my direction.

I should stop for now, but I can’t seem to put down this thin cylindrical cartridge of refined graphite.

I guess this memoir is my chance to purge my being of the consequences of my transgressions.

But, that can’t happen no matter the lengths I take.

The memory remains.

It always remains.

Like a dirty video on the Internet.

It occurs again, like clockwork almost.

The footfalls go by, as if they are expecting me to write this memoir.

Or awaiting the day I just give in and cease my scrawling.

Like I said beforehand, I can’t know the exact time or the exact place of the demise.

But I can make a damn good guess as to the exact event.

It involves the first two scenarios dealing with the treatment of this memoir upon its completion.

And maybe both scenarios are a part of one overall conspiracy.

Like the Reptoid conspiracy to take over the planet.

It’s routinely called the New World Order.

And they have taken over, fully, completely, totally.

Without qualm, without hesitation.

And they will kill anybody that even knows a hint of the truth.

The critics of the New World Order only have a partial hint of the truth.

Those videos on the Internet that show three recent presidents as having Reptilian eyes.

They are true, because I’ve seen their eyes with my own eyes.

They, the so-called critical players and playees alike, have weaved a massive conspiracy of epic caliber.

That is also true, but the accuracy can’t be completely verified.

I do know that they are the overseers of my prison complex.

What else needs to be said?

And what else can be done?

There’s no way to stop it if the infiltration by the Reptoids is as deep as I think it is.

It’s like a town the sacrifices a victim to some sort of demigod in order to maintain peace, solidarity, and equilibrium.

It’s like trying to erase any presence of the God Virus in one’s life, ever after vaccination.

It’s like trying to keep an addiction at bay, be it because of sex, drugs or rock and roll.

Even this sufferer has been stricken with avitaminosis and any one of a thousand communicable disease agents.

The addiction still has a hold in this cold, dark and dank place.

The addiction still has a hold even though I’m on the verge of death.

I’ll be the alcoholic under your car engine sipping the leaking antifreeze because I’m too broke to buy a bottle of Listerine or rubbing alcohol.

I’d probably hand you my pants as payment.

But my addiction has the reverse occurring.

I’d receive my pants back after I serviced the john the way he wanted to be served.

And now I’m paying for it with my deteriorating health.

And the final payment may occur tomorrow, the day after or the day after that.

But, the book of Ecclesiastes is the ultimate authority on the subject.

There may be no tomorrow after all.

I’m putting down my pencil for now.

Who knows if I’ll ever pick it up again.

To be honest, who really cares?

We live in the United States of Amnesia after all.