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Tuesday, September 6, 2011

The Witch’s Hammer: A Short-Story Fiction of Tall Tail (err Tale) "NC-17"

You’re the one who said Mormons are all children of abuse, so what's the f'ing use! This is why Menlo Park Veterans Hospital would like you to talk straight—about Dixie, that small school at the southern end of the state you spoke of attending round nineteen seventy-eight. Speak to us again about the notorious professor, that was once a missionary, who dared to challenge values and beliefs, zeal and as you said, the hate! You say he had access to Mormon Temple archives in Salt Lake, wrote a study guide entitled, “Was Jesus Christ a Capitalist”and lectured Econ. Aren't self-reliance and free agency sacred cows for Mormonism’s true believers—from Deacon? And, oh yes, about that other book contrasting and comparing economic philosophies with Mormonism. You quipped that he put a snag in what you called “Their Zion Curtain”. This guy sounds like a real "Son of a Bishop", that’s for certain! You seem have a conflict of conscience with Mormons; is this the reason you've come to us hurtin’?

Well it’s only because, as they do, the Mormon church was damning this professor—and among his family too. They were damning him methodically, and nobody knew. For years, he’d followed their trail of clues that revealed what Mormonism had done to faithful and their families—the f'ing screws! They've always screwed Mormons they deemed to be "Jack”. Oh well, I mean a sense of morality and justice is what they lack. That’s my alibi for performing tricks while delivering anarchy’s news—the licks!

Be straight with us now and don’t tinker, when you say this professor’s information was previously hidden from historians or even one critical thinker. So, Church leaders could no longer hide his sources—Mormonism's Comprehensive History and Journal of Discourses? You say these were books of chronicled evidence, events with dates, began before and continued after Joseph Smith’s claim of revelation, possession of an ancient history on golden plates. Therefore, according to you, this professor was exposing Joseph Smith Jr. and crew's historical use of fear, deception, secrecy and murder. You say this professor exposed pathological and criminal behavior not of Mormons in general, but crimes committed by Joseph Smith Junior, Brigham Young and any big-time Church member; that small people couldn't or refused to see and/or remember. Therefore, you believe this intellectual displayed courage when he spoke about what he’d found in his research and ended up paying a high price for his integrity? Obviously these circumstances, or cause you speak of, have produced in you an effect.

I had to separate from myself to escape these demons. I’d had the most horrible dreams. Being a small boy, I was sent to this vicious, no-account, little, barnyard site. While there, I received treatments beneath acidic, yellow light. With everyone taunting and laughing overhead, it was such a f'ing horrible sight while being held down so tight. So hey mister, where’s my type supposed to troll? God’s already taken his ultimate toll. Now it's my turn to swallow every one of his comer's whole. And when are all these horrible dreams going to end? Why was I chosen to be the one—my family’s prodigal son? Can’t we sing like we were young children again?

So Krishna wasn't a tag used for fun or to flirt. It provoked cowboys to rip the buttons down your shirt. Therefore, Krishna was a queue for beatings, degradation and humiliation constructed for the twerp. You say they held you down, urinating on your head and face, for their goodness’ sake?

It was this problem with Mormon molestation; laying their hands and plans all over me. So I had to dissolve myself. Deprecation preceded my psyche’s disintegration. I couldn't measure up to their standard. I had tried to make things better; but I was still wearing their Scarlet Letter.

And about our diagnosis of neurosis? If you sought another life to feel unique; why would it be more fun to switch dress, Bea Jenowin? Aren't you just really a freak?

When I look out my window,
Many sights to see.
And when I look in my window,
So many different people to be
That it's strange, so strange.
                                    D. Leitch

And what were the Beatle Boots under the dress all about? Oh, we get it! You were the fairy cross-dressed for mercy—right? Then you changed, and turned-about, to perform tricks. Looking for clarity, a cause to cook, you hit the street soliciting johns and begging for charity. Now it's all about yer fagot, sorry-ass without a clue, sucking young dicks with your hair tinted blue. We see you also no longer fix, but get up early every morning for your methadone mix.

But for these Mormons, it sounds like it was no big deal. You're the one who chose to appeal! And what's the story about tracking down boys to squirt them, missionaries proselytizing too, with urine from a bottle while skipping up Santa Monica boulevard—full throttle. In front of their Temple, looking like one of the dangerous types, you stopped at every traffic light spraying-wipe-spraying your caustic piss all over their bikes. You even threatened, while demanding cash,  to squirt young ladies on their ass. You'd squirt them all over their dress, you beast—yes, we mean you—for giving you one, single, little, tiny penny less. You called it "The Hollywood Hustle". But what was up with all your excitement, and why were you so giddy? You’d been living in a shelter in Culver City.

The Savage Effect

Paint your mind and run wildly naked
without tights in figure eights.
When you come to with bud stuck all
over your forearms and glycerin based
jamin-jelly smeared all over and misplaced,
you’ll still be cookin' too,
canna-butter laced.

I pulled my “Savage Effect” by mirroring the molester’s perversion back at their precious little ones. They were just looking for a little "Pre-Mission", so to say. A face-to-waist prayer session, instead of a lay, which I could give them any time of day. For two years they'd be straight; before they could get any on our kind of date. Listen here sweethearts! Nothing tickles my tall, tight, little ass more than revenge.

I was just another Circle Jerk among fallen leaves, standin' under the tall trees. I was never able to remember much—all that  lysergic acid and always off the cuff. But you all know, I've dropped enough of Owsley Stanley's stuff. I constantly recall all the hell; because, I can still see Satan pulling detail.

Look, Mormons were telling me Africans had the curse of Cain, were inferior and were wimps before they were ever born. In previous life they said with scorn. I couldn't imagine why their demons would do this to me at fifteen—why my childhood was being torn.

So later in your life, how could this institutionalized racism and cover-up of crimes not affect your military career and cause you strife? You worked for a Civil Engineering Squadron? Ah, here it is! Air Force 57150, an airport firefighter in West Germany living your moment of time on America’s dime. Would it be safe for us to assume that working with African Americans, Airman of a different race and creed, was your first taste of affirmative action?  And everyone depended on each other for their lives? What satisfaction!

Did you hear the one about the ghost, colored honey, with a horn one hundred-ten years before my sanity was torn? Who took the damned loot from um? Paiutes had no use for the money! Why would Mormon faithful stiff Brother Brigham?

I didn't know why these Mormons were beating my skinny ass. These fellows were the great-great grandsons of participants past, a 1857 massacre at Mountain Meadows in mass. How could molesters so lame, have no damn shame? I hadn't yet dreamed that scene: the men, women and small children old enough to talk left to coyotes and crow. For two years, 120 people’s remains were scattered—never buried—about the prairie in the sun, rain, wind, and snow. His ancestors were Puritan, and his roots went to the Malleus Maleficarum—The Hammer for a Colony in New England—you know, to use as justice for intelligent bitches they deemed to be witches.

Was he the one who wore a cowboy hat like the bushwhackers you talked about in 1857 at the site? Was he one of them standing above you in that acidic, yellow light; for only a few to see, weren't they the ones who ripped your soul and sexuality from puberty?

He was a Governor and favorite son of a family Crest's core, reaching back hundreds of years with a Coat of Arms nobody could ignore. So haven't you heard what was said; "Higbee the Hacker" gave the order to fire dressed-up Indian with face painted red. Together they heckled that I was different an outsider from another State. They were the great-great grandchildren—ghosts of Major John Higbee and Isaac Chauncey Haight. I had worn beads the first day at school—"Modernity"—fresh for them to hate. Krishna! Krishna! Krishna! Their goons taunted in a sharp staccato first as they spit, then rolled it from their throat and wouldn't quit. But if anyone here really even cares to know, it's that life is only sort of like a wheel; the further one changes the easier it is for them to "ho"!

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