The pieces just didn't fit so probably wasn't me that did it. Last thing I remember was Nikki weeping. She was either trying to take the gun away or give it to me. Just not sure.
Then, it became clearer and I heard her sing, like we were both in a studio: At China Lake
They gave me everything new
Made my temples throb.
Said they had been Terra-Formed.
There was no trail though
Out and I was all alone.
No signs either and no hope.
Couldn't reach him in the desert
And his far report
Made me cover my ears.
Pulled him out of the car
When I got there,
But there was no note.
Only some script penned with a finger
On the fogged glass inside.
Nikki sang it from her own heart. Like she was trying to decode my terminus tragedy and share it with her handlers. She had enough trans human strength to pick up my body and tuck it in a wash. That was clear and it helped me orient to what I thought was a deception at first.
She reached into my car and pulled out the script. It was finished.
Nikki then drew a circle in the sand with her heel around my body. Then I remembered when the hybrids tried forcing me through a portal, saying it was the best way to cover up the evidence of my murder. Can't say I was thankful when I woke up from that. Nor when I saw the Minaj bomb explode.
Her detonation cleared the field and Arnon Milchan emerged in the round.
"Cheer up. Don't look so Mossad." He said and stepped inside. "Now that Nikki is out of the way, we can talk business. I like the bit about lubricating Herzl's pineal gland with Australopithecus anti-matter. So does Shimon Peres. I even got a phone call from Eisner and Murdoch who were watching your dry run in Tel Aviv too, That's when we decided to set you up with Russell Brand and Jay-Z. Boost your sense of self worth a little."
My skull hadn't shattered after all and I wasn't picking up pieces of my cranium from the sand. The evidence was quite indicting now. Arnon held my script up to the sun for all to see.
"My soul is in a bomb destined for Afghanistan." Nikki Minaj confided. What she was doing sitting next to me as I waited for a food stamp interview this morning, I didn't know. She sure stood out from all the others. A woman with a pale face, acne and one in the oven, eyed her suspiciously.
"Sure would be pretty to see it exploding from above."
I reached out and she held my hand and closed her eyes. "Now why would you want to take your life?Shame on you."
"I'll be giving my death, not taking my life. Big difference."
"Shame on you. You are so talented. Stop it."
The recipe I had been musing on while I waited dissolved in my mind and I couldn't recall what the ratio was between the ferrocyanide and potassium carbonate that I needed for my exit concoction. Was it three parts iron turnings or ten that I needed to add to it?
There was a bit of warmth in the hand I squeezed more firmly now. I could see Minaj's carpet bomb choreography all throughout a Google satellite image of the middle east on my tablet. But before I could render a song out of it for her, a door down the hallway opened and a fat woman called my name. She too looked at Nikki like the mom-to-be did. Then at my tattered shorts when I got up. The shorts I have worn every single day since ending up in Arizona back in October.
"I'm a writer." I told her as she scrolled through my application that I had tried to file on-line. I expected that she would understand what that meant. "Still waiting for my first royalty check from Amazon."
"Well how are you making a living?"
Nikki came barging in. Her hair was even more fluorescent.
"You should read his script. Has Spielberg all set up to produce it. And I'm the lead."
"Are you going to be sharing your food with her?" My interviewer asked without looking up.
"If you declare her a dependent you can get cash assistance. $100.00 a month."
"I could never declare my anima a dependent."
Nikki laughed at that, her eyes going livid, like she really understood. "We should put this in the script." She laughed some more, excited for some reason.
I felt uneasy. Like I couldn't acclimate to the cubicle we were in. The interviewer clicked on a few more things on the application and got up.
We followed her out to the lobby where I had my picture taken and fingerprints too.
As I waited for my card, I held hands with Nikki.
And then again when I left but she got pulled back inside as I passed through the door.
Sitting in my car, it started to rain a bit and I waited for the droplets to form a map on the windshield that would indicate where I was to go from here.
"O.K. Here's the real reason Defense Minister Hyon Yong Chol was executed. It has nothing to do with dissing Kim Jong un. It has everything to do with the storms on Pluto. When they riddled him with anti-aircraft fire it helped to generate rubidium atoms-which maintain distance between planetary as well as atomic bodies. Otherwise we'd have all the planets that are storming and quaking and vulcanizing just as bad as earth, adhering to one another. The Quark gluon plasma still releasing from Hyon's perforated skull simultaneously serves as an insulator and conductor, enabling clear transmission of the updates needed on the asteroid phalanx , Deus Ex Machina AKA the Vatican's coup d'état rapture card that will seal the deal. We absolutely have to raise Governor Greg Abbott's awareness of this and get the execution quota levels in Texas even higher, before the Jade Helm distraction hits the theaters. And no inefficient HB1274 Death penalty guillotine provisions. Period. DARPA will donate as many Sniper smart bullets as needed by the posse comitatus firing squads. Now, infrared spectroscopy will spell what I'm saying out in case you can't grok it. The code quest is for a potential superconductor. Get it? This is encrypted in Chol's eulogy in the Hamgyŏng dialect which I'm fluent in and was able to hack when I caught it on shortwave. It is all about Rydberg interactions-quantum transport my friends. So no boo-hooing when you read about plane crashes, trains derailing, floods, tornadoes, economies collapsing and motorcycle gangs shooting up Twin Peaks. Read the news in a new way because in it will be your own liberation from what I've been hinting at in this cozenage all along."
"Now on to scene 266. An aerial shot." I said, leading my limo homies on, as we cruised down the Strip some more.
"When Francis hits the D.C. tarmac on September 23rd, he'll activate the Pentagram points. The White House, of course will glow the brightest."
"Homeland Security, the Secret Service and the FBI will bounce any and all contenders when things light up. They'll taser atheists, even though the Pope claims they too will go to heaven."
"Better throw in a reveal. How about Michelle Obama dancing in a Gog Magog-a-Go Go cage?" Brand suggested, coming more to life again. "The Pope's illumination will make her dress so seductively see-through."
"Have her dance the Trans Pacific Tango while the incoming asteroids that have been in a state of suspended animation, smash clean through the orbiting genocide remains. The Queer Mob is liberated and they all come swooning down in canonical wing suits, right into to the U.S. Capitol where they'll do some Casting Couch servicing."
"This Day of Atonement script is writing itself." Jay-Z smiled. "Rest assured, your flick will hit the theaters on the first day of the Jubilee Year."
"Bet you never thought Hollywood could be this effortless. The debt cancellation thing, that is." Russell Brand said in attempts to assuage me. "Now get back to where you came from."
I shook hands with my partners without responding and debarked from the limo. It was nice to be alone again, knowing an advance from Spielberg would soon come my way.
Some Bag Lady vagrant noticed my errant, sidewalk ambling and waited until I came closer. She held up a battered, black bible, opened it and then handed it to me.
Highlighted in red was the following:
And I will shew wonders in the heavens and in the earth, blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke.
The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and terrible day of the Lord come.
I swallowed a bit, gave her bible back and resumed seeking my salvation with fear and trembling.
I was asked by the brown nosing brain child of the 'Unconvention' to submit a piece of political art as a form of 'protest' against the 2008 Republican convention in Minneapolis. 'Voters' who visited the web site would then decide which entries would be used as lawn signs to be displayed throughout the Twin Cities: http://www.myyardourmessage.com/
Not surprisingly, they refused to even enter my butt plugged pig. I then started checking in with other artists who submitted work that got nixed as well and many were fuming mad. One artist called this pathetic debacle the 'Walker Art Censor'.
It really didn't surprise me though seeing how complacently blue chip the Walker Art Center is and how they have promoted artists of the 'Phantom Left' for years. The people behind this farce are nothing but euphorically deluded, political poseurs- still believing the lie that 'social media' is a powerful means to initiate substantial change.
The only change I've seen is of the Obama variety of which the Unconvention will continue to aid and abet, all at the expense of the truth and the artists who still have the courage to expose it.