Tag: BlackLivesMatter

THE CHARACTER YOU LOVE TO HATE IS RESURRECTED, IN ONE OF ART HISTORIES MOST CONTENTIOUS SAGA’S; TITLED, “Redemption: The Story Of The Crackhead Jesus Trials – Part II – The Second Coming Of The Three Muses.”© By Victor-Hugo Vaca II.

“Redemption: The Story Of The Crackhead Jesus Trials – Part II: The Second Coming Of The Three Muses.”©

By Victor-Hugo Vaca II.

© 2017 Victor-Hugo Vaca II All rights reserved.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  – John 1:5

CRACKHEADJESUS/CRACK-HEAD JESUS/ krak-hed jee-zuh z/ (noun) 1. a contemptibly obnoxious person, jerk 2. a person who indulges in hypocrisy, hypocrite 3. a person or force seen as opposing Christ, Antichrist, a person or thing regarded as supremely evil or as a fundamental enemy or opponent, devil, satan.

Prelude:

“Somewhere in time.“- VHVII

CHAPTER I

[Spiders]

Evil surrounded me in my restless slumber, when a bitter cold washed over me, as I felt my soul currency, being filled, with light and love. At that moment, I found myself lying in a room full of spiders: Tarantulas, actually and they weren’t biting or crawling over me, they simply surrounded me, swaying and pulsating, like a hairy mob, in a dense room with no furniture, windows, or doors.

“I am that I am.” An unfamiliar voice seeped into my subconscious, while I wrestled with familiar dreams and nightmares.

The throbbing ceiling and glossed walls were painted stark white, in contrast to the rose haired tarantulas that encircled my position at the center of the square room. The ominous murmuration of arachnids manifested a strangely sensual, ebb and flow of rhythmic color that danced along the floor towards my naked body.

“The debt of a man’s soul is paid by his children.” A Stranger’s voice floated into my eardrums, through wind gusts created by the sound of billions of spider hairs crashing into each other.

“Think Seven Generations forward in compassionate wealth.” The Voice carried over the maddening sound of infinite flexible spider limbs crunching, crawling and moving swiftly, within earshot of my consciousness, manifested in reality.

“Do not be a Crackheadjesus.” The Voice added five words, that echoed like blasphemy in a house of hypocrites, piercing through the noise of countless spiders and settling into the pit of my being, like acid rain.

“Blasphemy!” A Devil shouted through the madness, as a thousand spider hairs tickled my toes.

“Make sure the Witches of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich fail to manifest George Orwell’s ‘1984’ in reality. One plus one does not equal three.” The prophetic words of a stranger, who introduced himself as, Crackhead Jesus, thrust me into a full-blown nightmare, while I pushed against an ethereal heaviness, that kept me pinned to sweat drenched sheets on a dirty mattress. A bright, blinding, light then flashed into my petrified, wide-open eyes, as I struggled, without strength, to wake up.

“You just got hit by a Mack truck, Maggot!” Pressure in the room was palpable, when the voice of Crackhead Jesus tapped into my steel, fiber of being.

“I will let you live as long as you do what I tell you.” The moment Crackhead Jesus threatened my life, from behind the bright light, I felt a sharp, cold, metal blade, on my bulging, neck-vein.

His words breathed deep into my soul and lingered, like bittersweet memories of lost love in a toxic relationship.

“Kill your roommate!” Crackhead Jesus shouted, at me, with fierce command, as I was held down, by an ethereal burden, that refused to release my soul into the waking state. “Do you understand, you worthless, Maggot?”

I lay silent, without moving or breathing, while praying for the nightmare to end, as I listened for what seemed like an eternity, to my frail roommate cry and moan, in extreme physical agony and mental pain, while being mercilessly beaten with socks full of quarters and pummeled with venomous words, repeatedly, within inches of his life and arms-length of my reach.

“And you were never at the keg party!” Crackhead Jesus added, as I gasped for air against the razor-sharp blade that nicked my tender Adam’s apple. “You never saw me! Do you understand? You, Bon-Jovi-faggot!”

“Help!” My assaulted roommate begged, while bawling, repeatedly, from inches away, as I struggled to survive, under the heavy burden, pushed down upon my fiber of being, by toxic supervision, at the world-famous leadership laboratory, in Annapolis, Maryland.

“If you say my name, you are a dead man. Accidents happen on Aircraft Carriers, you know: You may, unwittingly, get sucked into a fighter jet engine. Your spic and Spanish body parts will be mopped up, swept overboard and feed fish; while the Captain, makes sure your parents get a nicely-folded-flag, in honor of your service, you worthless, piece-of-shit!” Crackhead Jesus’ words, took my breath away, with a vengeance, that suppressed me from uttering anything, as I lay, helpless, within soaking wet, white, satin, sheets, that enveloped my shivering, naked, body, like a cocoon, trapped in a dream, filled with undulating spiders.

Just then, a solitary Black Widow spider gently made its way across my pale, petrified face and whispered into my throbbing ear, “Pray you flow. Flow and you will pray for more.”

I tried desperately to wake up and escape the nightmare but the dense heaviness kept my body immobile, with tribally tattooed arms, outstretched, like Jesus on a cross.  I felt the hands of the Devil, deep inside me, trying to shake the soul currency out of my aching body, as the Black Widow spider tickled the hairs inside my ear while whispering; “Just be and all your prayers will manifest.”

My eyes flickered as my sanity caved in on itself, when I heard the Black Widow spider, inside my brain, say, “You are about to embark on a journey, into the New Age of Aquarius. You will meet many false prophets and lawyers along the way.”

I felt the Black Widow spider, dancing inside my aching head and heard strange words in the melody she hummed, while I witnessed her vocal frequencies and wavelengths manifest into colors and hues, as curious images of futures, past and present, flashed swiftly, across my soft, blank, stare, into the multi-universe.

The Black Widow sang lucidly, like a dark angel; humming haunting hymns, into the fiber of my being while repeating a chorus of questions ad nauseam, “Do you understand, My Love? Do you understand?”

A trinity of muses then appeared in a rainbow of colors within my being. The wisdom of generations pounded inside my chest, as the shrill voice of a Black Widow spider, nesting within me, floated onto a stream of profound melodies that drowned out the horror of my existence. At that moment, I surrendered in wonder, as The Three Muses sang sweetly, into my soul, “Be, The Artist. Do not be despondent. Trust your instinct and put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of Crackhead Jesus, the devil and his coven of supreme legal counsel at the enchanted law firm of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich.”

Like a spinal tap, through my basic instinct, the sharp sting of a Black Widow spider downloaded generations of primal, carnal knowledge into the fiber of my being as The Three Muses continued to sing songs of strength into my soul; “You will come across a big man, who claims to be a poor Jew, with a law degree, from a Roman Catholic University. Do not be fooled by the false prophet named, Crackhead Jesus. He will float in and out of your life with the wind, morphing into strange, disturbing fractals of existence, which you will document in art, for future generations. Crackhead Jesus will tempt and challenge you but do not give in to his negativity and hate, instead, you must shine through the darkness by learning to live, love and flow.”

Trillions of tiny feet tap danced inside my head at the sound of the name Crackhead Jesus. For an instant, that felt eternal, my being was consumed by ravenous spiders, whose frenzied pitter-patter of long, hairy, legs tickled words, while pounding questions and phrases into my head, that sounded like, “What would Crackhead Jesus do?”, “Crackhead Jesus is coming” and “There is only one rule, The Golden Rule.”

“Beware of those you choose to trust on your journey.” The Three Muses sang, as my head spun around in circles, to the rhythmic beat of a thousand undulating arachnids, performing lustful mating dances, within my throbbing psyche. “Crackhead Jesus will introduce himself as a conservative Christian named Mister Rogers. In fact, he is a Wall Street bank lawyer and a judge-shopper, for the good-old-boys-club, at The Florida Bar.”

“You will meet a lawyer whose middle name is Rumpelstiltskin and he will commit perjury in the name of Crackhead Jesus.” The Three Muses noted in chorus. “He will use the Court to exorcise demons conjured by Crackhead Jesus and in so doing will unleash the devil’s minions from within dark shadows of the deep state. This fallen angel will rape the Constitution, in front of Lady Liberty, to force the unholy union of ego and greed; in the name of law.”

I felt the heat from the loins of the Black Widow as she seduced a male spider, full of hubris, with the politically incorrect words she whispered, inside my throbbing head. “The politics of the penis will bring man-made economies to their knees and Crackhead Jesus will manifest a gross conflict of interest, between ego and greed, that will infect generations, of global populations, with terminal distrust, of all government leadership and courts.”

I felt the sting of a Black Widow, sinking its fangs into an aggressive male spider, as he mounted and inseminated her inside my head. My body twitched and tingled as strange liquids traversed the chambers of my brain, while The Three Muses sang; “Crackhead Jesus will be birthed by a White Conservative-Republican, transgender lesbian, with a huge penis and a very small clit. She will be artificially inseminated by a Black, Liberal-Democrat, transgender, bi-sexual, closeted-illegal-alien-transvestite, from Syria, with huge offshore-bank-accounts, a micro-penis, no testicles, or any legal identification and very close ties to the deep state, Russians and The Clinton Machine.”

My swollen bosom heaved and strained as the Black Widow spider spoke sternly into my cerebral cortex, “The birth of Crackhead Jesus will expose portals of existence within shadow governments and reveal a Holographic multi-universe, that perpetually unleashes the creation of corrupt, incompetent and unethical attorneys and judges, that hide within a Litigation vortex, that is propelling the United Slaves of America, through a New World Order and into The Modern Dark Ages. If not stopped, countless generations will be enslaved in a vicious cycle, of hypocrisy, avarice and apathy, as the new norm and God, for all people.”

“If this threat is allowed to transpire to its predicted conclusion, the union of justice and peace, as a reality within nature, the human fiber of being and instinct, will cease to exist.” The Three Muses sang, as sharp hair, on the wet legs of the Black Widow spider, scratched the inside of my ear canal, while she thirst-fully devoured her limp suitor.

The bizarre sensation of nature taking its course inside my head reminded me that I was alive and cognizant, but not at all well, inside the real world; living alongside the United Slaves of America, in The Age of Fake News, before The Modern Dark Ages.

CHAPTER II

[Crackhead Jesus Loves You]

“Fuck, Facebook!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, as I picked up the script for Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, to read aloud. “Diversity of thought is under attack. Free your mind, Kid.”

“I was an outsider looking in, to what less than, one percent of the human race, gets to witness: A first generation Hispanic, with a world famous French name, who grew up in Hollis, Queens, New York, watching Run-DMC rap, while playing softball, at the park, and Spike Lee film, ‘School Daze’, while learning, at Brooklyn Tech, before hanging out with Nazi’s and pedophiles, in the Paraguay jungle, near Iguazu Falls, rock stars and celebrities at private house parties, in Beverly Hills, California and crooked cops and corrupt nightclub owners, in South Beach, Miami, Florida, after leaving the world famous leadership laboratory, at the United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis, Maryland.”  I read out loud, from the heavy script, while pacing, in a room, filled with artwork and storyboards, painted on canvas, wood and paper.

“That’s nice, Kid, but we’re not writing a book, we’re writing a screenplay.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.

“You’re the script doctor, tell me what to do.” I said, while tossing him the screenplay.

“Okay.” He said, flipping through pages of my script. “We need to put those words in action.”

“Let’s do it.” I said, enthusiastically.

“I can’t.” The Hebrew Hammer said, stopping on page ten and shaking his head.

“What?”

“Crackhead Jesus loves you?” He paused to stare at me, as if I were a fool. “That’s disgusting!”

“It’s love.” I answered. “You said you were the best in the business. Fix it.”

“Crackhead Jesus is beyond repair!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Listen, unless the Supreme Court strikes down the law banning disparaging trademarks, no one’s going to want to invest in this movie. The title puts you in the same category as The Slants and Redskins.”

“I can see the headline, in global newspapers, when the Supreme Court decides to protect our freedom, to express the thoughts that we hate.” I said, looking into the future and pausing for a psychic moment. “A remarkably high number of new applications for obscene and racist trademarks have been received at the US Patent and Trademarks Office.”

“Cock Sucker, Nigger Please, Crackhead Jesus and Dicks by Mail, to name just a few.” The Hebrew Hammer laughed, while manufacturing a cross out of marijuana cigarettes on his special Bible. “You might as well try selling shit on a stick, Kid, because nobody’s buying Crackhead Jesus.”

“It’s not blasphemy, it’s the truth.” I answered in frustration, while watching a spider crawl along the moldy ceiling of our hotel room in Fort Myers, Florida, as the witching hour approached. “Besides, the Lord knows, a law forbidding official registration of offensive trademarks unconstitutionally limits free speech. The Supreme Court will come to its senses one day, you’ll see. We’ll be walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards, handing out Crackhead Jesus is coming stickers to fake journalists.”

“Maybe, when hell freezes over but I don’t have time for this megillah.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before pausing to take a sip of Kosher Beer, while sifting through his holey Bible. “I told you, making a real Hollywood film ain’t easy. The Thief and the Cobbler was in and out of production for thirty-one years and that was a fucking cartoon, not Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, so, I suggest you pick your battles wisely, Kid.”

“You don’t get it.” I pleaded, while shoving modern-art-gonzo-journalism in his face.

“No!” He shouted. “Du farkirtst mir di yorn! You don’t get it, your script’s fercockt. This Crackhead Jesus is Meeskait, I’m telling you, it’s just downright ugly, like lying to your Mother on Mother’s Day and I’m not just any Jew, saying that, I’m a seasoned script-doctor, with super-wealthy, movie-making friends, in Hollywood, telling, you, that.” The Hebrew Hammer added, while handing me a joint, before changing his tone of voice. “Light that, would you please, my Shabbos goy.”

Without fuss, I did as the Hebrew Hammer requested, took a toke and passed it back saying, “Dude, I can’t make this stuff up. Crackhead Jesus is a court case, not blasphemy. Google, it.”

“You say, what sounds like blasphemy, is a crooked justice system?”

“Is that Lisa Loeb?” I answered the Hebrew Hammer, with a question of trivia.

“You say, I only hear what I want to.” The Hebrew hammer sang, while bogarting the joint. “Yes, that you do, my free-spirited friend.” He laughed, while pointing a finger at me before looking deep into my cryptic creations. “But, you’re the one keeping a diary of the world on canvas, as you march to the beat of your own drum, into uncharted realms of existence.”

“It’s modern-art-gonzo-journalism.” I noted.

“You’re making your life an open book, for the Lied to Generation to decipher, like ancient hieroglyphics.”

“Hunter S. Thompson did it in words, Dali did it in art and John Lennon did it in music. I’m fusing all three into the Modern Art Music Movement, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”

“On stage, in real-time, during a revolutionary period in human history.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while furiously scribbling red ink, on the tenth rewrite of my script, about false prophets and lawyers titled, ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’.

“While creativity is being threatened, by those who claim to champion free speech.” I added, before getting up and walking, towards crates, that I had neatly stacked in a corner, near the bathroom.

“Cultural genocide.” The Hebrew Hammer sighed. “It’s happening.”

“It’s a sign of the times. We’re coming to a fork in the road of human-history. To the right is an Age of Enlightenment, to the left, Very Dark Ages and in the middle, we have, the road less-traveled, which leads us all into the great unknown.” I said, while holding up a painting for the Hebrew hammer to reflect on, that I had created, on the same stage that Coldplay, The Rolling Stones and Billy Joel had performed, near South Hampton, at The Stephen Talkhouse, in Amagansett, Long Island, New York, during a momentous Modern Art Music Movement, MAMM Jam, with Big Suga.

“Live. Love. Flow.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he scratched his bald spot and stared at my work.

“We need balance, to pass through this wormhole into a Golden Age of Awakening.” I said, while pointing out subliminal messages hidden within the modern-art-gonzo-journalism painting.

“A very old Rabbi, I met at the Western Wall, in the Old City of Jerusalem, once told me: The day creativity reaches its pinnacle and we give up manifesting new realities, we cease to exist in time and space. Culturally, we fall back into the Dark Ages. At which point, he said, we’re all doomed, because nothing grows well and thrives, in darkness and gloom.” The Hebrew Hammer recalled, as I emptied a large crate full of artwork, for his careful consideration, all over the cramped hotel room.

“We all become mushrooms. I think that’s what his point was.” He said, while rummaging through his velvet Tallit and Tefillin Case, before pulling out a clear plastic bag full of fungus. “Speaking of which, I have some psychedelic treats with me, as well, my new, New York artist friend.” He sniffed inside the bag, while adding. “To spice up our time here, at The Welcome Inn, before your big show tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Doofus. The Golden Rule will get us through the Dark Ages and we’ll all blossom into a new Age of Enlightenment.” I said, while shoving raw works of art in the Hebrew Hammer’s face, as he dangled a sandwich bag full of intoxicating mushrooms, in front of my weary, bloodshot eyes.

“You’re so idealistic and with the help of mainstream news and culture outlets, like FOX and MSNBC, no doubt.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically, as I emptied another crate full of artwork, for his consideration, all over our confined quarter. “It speaks volumes that artists, George Carlin and John Stewart, were the last great investigative reporters, in mainstream media, because as comedians, they could ask serious questions and here you are, now, with the dark comedy of Crackhead Jesus.”

“Look.” I said, holding up a plethora of colorful story-boards on canvas. “Crackhead Jesus is not about anyone’s religion or God. Unemployed investigative journalists, contact me, with real news tips and folks fed up with fake news stories, who feel they are being ignored by police, government and mainstream media news outlets, they tell me what no one wants to hear and I paint their untold stories, giving them a voice, live, on stage, while channeling nature, through the art of creation, at major events.”

“Dressed in a black cowboy hat with skull and crossbones, looking like a redneck version of the band, Kiss.” The Hebrew Hammer, said while digesting the strange visuals being thrown at his Mirror neurons, in rapid succession.

“I give viewers an intense experience, summoning emotions and even activating other repressed senses, when I MAMM Jam on stage.” I said, before taking a long toke, to pause and reminisce, in colorful flashbacks, of Modern Art Music Movement Happenings, that I had participated in, around the globe.

“You make the ladies wet, do you?” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.

“I have extreme embodied cognition.” I revealed.

“Sounds awful, what is that?”

“The ability to project oneself as an agent into depicted scenes.” I answered, adding, “I capture bidirectional flow, in my mirror neurons, which gives me more vividness.”

“Really, is that true or did you hear that on MSNBC?” The Hebrew Hammer asked.

“I manifest reality, in front of thousands of people, at big concerts and charity events, with huge, global acts, in famous venues, at historic locations, full of ghosts, where I meet Light-Workers, from all over the Universe, while I travel around the world and across the United States, painting untold stories and news, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”

“So, you paint the news, from coast to coast, dressed like, you’re alter-ego, the greatest American superhero, from an 80’s rock band. Then you use the modern-art-gonzo-journalism you created during your world tour with the Modern Art Music Movement, as film storyboards, for a modern-day parable of redemption. All, told through the eyes of a character, named, Crackhead Jesus, that is offending everyone, in this upside-down, politically-correct, no-free-speech world.”

“Crackhead Jesus, is the opposite of Jesus Christ.” I noted clearly, as thunder struck outside the door. “WWCHJD?”

“The Anti-Christ.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while staring into the face of the shape-shifter, Crackhead Jesus; a painting I had manifested at a benefit MAMM Jam with mentally challenged children in Naples, Florida, the day before our curious Sabbath, at The Welcome Inn.

“Check this out.” I said, while looking at my cell phone. “Facebook Nazi’s reported a Crackhead Jesus meme to Facebook police and had me thrown out of an offensive Facebook group.”

“What?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, as I approached him to share the image on my cell phone screen.

“I like trolling Facebook groups, where members post politically incorrect memes.”

“Why?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while staring at a screen that said my account was temporarily banned from Facebook, because a contemporary art Crackhead-Jesus-meme, failed to meet community standards.

“To see how long it takes for hardcore snowflakes to melt.” I answered enthusiastically. “It’s amazing. Facebook permits terrorist groups to recruit members, promotes racism, violence, hate speech and misogyny but if you post an artistic, thought provoking meme with the words ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ or, ‘What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?’, your account is suspended immediately and you get thrown in Facebook jail.”

“Facebook thinks your art is blasphemy.” The Hebrew Hammer noted.

“When people accuse me of blasphemy, they’re falsely claiming that I ever stated, that their Savior was, or is, a crackhead.” I explained, before retrieving my cell phone and taking a toke of Mary Jane, while the Hebrew Hammer returned to inspecting my diary of the world on canvas.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pot head, crackhead or heroin addict, nowadays, as long as you don’t use the n-word, in this fake politically-correct world.” The Hebrew Hammer interjected. “You wouldn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings and be labeled racist or insensitive toward Facebook snowflakes.”

The Hebrew Hammer shook his head, after reading the comments of foul-mouthed born-again hypocrites, living in the hatred of Crackhead Jesus, before carefully setting the android down and hungrily reaching for another work of modern-art-gonzo-journalism to ponder.

“Though, I must admit, the names of some of your paintings are offensive.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, as he read the brutally stark titles of my artwork, including ‘Trump Art’, ‘Meinigga’ and ‘Crackheadjesus’, written in black ink, on the back of colorfully painted canvas. “How do you sell Crackhead Jesus and Trump Art to nonbelievers?”

“First, I ask folks who threaten me with, ‘I ought to kick your fucking ass, for saying that about my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ’; ‘What would Jesus do?'” I confess, before passing the joint back to the Hebrew Hammer with squinted eyes. “Then, the people who claim to love Jesus and live in his Light, that bully me with death threats and say they wish I had been aborted, look at me with confusion all over their dumbfounded faces, when I remind them, that Richard Pryor invented crack, in the 80’s, while Duran-Duran, was still hungry, like the wolf.”

“Cunts!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Long after Jesus Christ was crucified, for their gossip, sins and hypocrisy.” He added, before inhaling God’s herb. “I get it.”

“Trump art is a hard sell, I know, but I love a challenge and beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I noted, while receiving the reefer he passed back reflexively, so he could quickly dive back into, the beguiling nature, of my subliminal creations. “I’m working towards pretty and making, informative, happy art but all I get is beautiful chaos and hatred in return.” I stated, woefully while sifting through works of modern-art-gonzo-journalism with a doobie dangling from my lips.

“Pious hypocrites casting stones.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, before I passed him the loco weed.

“Trust your instinct. Paint what you feel, Kid.” He said, after inhaling. “Don’t let the haters make you despondent. Go ahead, be the maverick artist. Paint what you want.”

“Resist, persist, insist, enlist.”  I said, while splashing color on works of art before handing them to the Hebrew Hammer for introspection. ” WWCHJD? What would Crackhead Jesus do?”

“What are you doing?” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in horror as I began adding a hint of cerulean blue to a painting titled, ‘Eating A Nothing Burger with Hillary Clinton, At The DNC, During the Long, Hot, Resistance Summer, In America ‘, with a fresh oil stick. “Stop that!”

“I’m just finishing it up.” I said, without pausing the act of creation. “I’m practicing for my gig tomorrow night, with the All Stars at the MAMM Jam Festival.”

“I thought that painting was finished.” The Hebrew Hammer said, in disgust. “Nudnek! It was beautiful. You’ve ruined it!”

“I’m not a speed painter. I’ve got a ninety-minute show to put on, tomorrow.” I said, to the Hebrew Hammer, as his face cringed. “My paintings aren’t finished until they are sold; away from my whim and brushstrokes.” I paused, before asking, “If you liked it so much, why didn’t you buy it, before I enhanced it?”

“You should give it to me, Kid. I have rich friends come over, all the time. They’ll see your artwork, on my walls.”

“And then what?”

The Hebrew Hammer sat silent, before I asked,”Do you tell your doctor, to perform free surgery on you, or your lawyer, to do free legal work, for you, so you, can recommend them, to all your cheap, elitist friends?”

“We can barter.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “As a script doctor, my services ain’t cheap.”

“You write for, Kosher Pervert Productions, in the porn industry.” I noted sarcastically.

“I’m trying to go mainstream.” He replied, earnestly.

“With Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?”

“I can make it work.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with confidence. “If you want to trade, for your art.”

“We can do that,” I voiced my agreement, as we both reached in for a firm handshake. “Listen, if you like a painting, buy it but until my art sells, the creations are my kids.” I paused, to look him in the eyes and feel his grip in my hand, before adding, “Let my paintings evolve naturally. I’ll raise the art to fruition, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not. So, let’s return to your script.” The Hebrew Hammer pivoted back on point, stating pragmatically, as he made notes in red ink on my script, “Alright, let’s see, here, it says that, somewhere in time, Jesus Christ walked the Earth. Around 1 A.D. Jesus Christ hung out with Buddha and Muhammad and Crackhead Jesus hung out with Richard Pryor after the death of Disco and the Mayor of Toronto, before crack was whack in Canada.”

“Is that true, or did you hear it on CNN?” I asked, as the image of CNN reporter, Charles Jaco, feigning coverage of the 1990 Persian Gulf War, flashed across the purposefully, silent television screen, facing away from the Hebrew Hammer’s line of sight, to be Orthodox, on Sabbath.

“It’s a hard sell man, especially in this politically-correct culture we’re living in. Most people won’t understand Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule, that’s all I’m telling you.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while coughing a large, residual-cloud of smoke, into the room, as I showed him another Facebook conversation, about Crackhead Jesus and fake news, influencing pop culture.

“Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule.” I paused after speaking, to let the words sink into my subconscious, as I watched CNN contributor Donna Brazile, peddle colluded fake news coverage, over airwaves.

“I like that.” I said, while tearing strips of toilet paper, as designated Goy, in halachic compliance, approved by major poskim, for the Hebrew Hammer, who was keenly digesting modern-art-gonzo-journalism, for the very first time, in his extraordinary life.

“So what’s with all the spiders in your Crackhead Jesus script?”

“It’s metaphor.” I answered.

“Okay, but the beginning is still too existential. It’s meaningless to a filmmaker. You need action not metaphor.”

“You want more action?” I asked.

“And big tits, somewhere in the story. Look, my point is, you’re limiting your audience. You’re going to lose whoever sticks around after seeing the name Crackhead Jesus and anyone with arachnophobia, that’s for sure.”

“Just keep reading.” I said, before exhaling a cloud of rings, into the smelly room, as The Hebrew Hammer shook his head while looking down at my screenplay. “Here, take a hit of this, it’ll help you make sense of the story.”

The Hebrew Hammer adjusted the yarmulke, on his balding head, before grabbing the joint, taking a hit and delving back into the legend of Crackhead Jesus, with an open mind, as the sky poured heavy rain, down on The Welcome Inn, long after midnight.

CHAPTER III

[Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele]

“Beware of the witch, who calls himself a Judge and is nicknamed, Donald “The Duck” Hafele, at the shady Florida Bar, where Your Honor is regularly pimped out, to the highest bidder, for judicial favors.” The Black Widow spider spoke to me, as I judged her ethics in my mind, while watching her devour another limp suitor.

“Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele speaks one thing but does another.” The Three Muses sang, as the Black Widow spider licked her hairy legs inside my head. “And, like Rumpelstilstkin, you can’t say his name out loud, or Crackhead Jesus and his minions, will accuse you of blasphemy, in the court of public opinion.”

“You will meet the specter of G-Rod Miller and he will open your eyes, to a man-made drought of soul currency that threatens to starve billions of souls, when a catastrophic tsunami of spiritual famine is unleashed upon mankind, by lawyers, witches and devils, embedded in shadows of the deep state.” The insatiable Black Widow whispered, as I opened my eyelids, to see a room full of spiders, staring back at me, with over a billion eyes. “The Golden Rule, will cease to exist, on Earth, forever.”

I shut my eyelids quickly and in the darkness, saw the face of a bright, young, boy staring back at me, with hope in his eyes and a great white smile, on his big, black face. Like a lunar eclipse of the sun, G-Rod Miller’s ghostly image blacked out the spiders I sensed crawling all around me. “What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?” He asked my soul, as I released a primal scream, into the echoes of my mind.

“Crackhead Jesus will try to convince you that everything is broken beyond repair and to accept the status quo but do not be fooled by his wily deception.” The Black Phantom spoke through a chill that left me shivering. “Witches, disguised as lawyers and judges, will attempt to veer you from your destiny as, The Maverick Artist. They will try to alter your identity in Court, by forcefully changing your birth name on record, but fear not what liars call you in corrupt halls of justice, because you are also, the voice of the Lied to Generation and The Three Muses will always be there to protect you. “

A fat spider scurried across my grinding teeth to the top of my head shouting, “Crackheadjesus is coming! Crackheadjesus is coming!”, as the Three Muses sang, “Angels and Light-Workers will enhance your ability and talents to spread a message of peace, love and compassionate wealth, through seven generations forward. Do not fear, My Love, we will always watch over you, with the strength and guidance of Saint Michael the Archangel.”

“You will keep a diary of the world on canvas.” The Black Widow whispered in my ear as the Three Muses seeped into my fiber of being, through the iris of my eyes, singing, “You are the Backpacker and will forever be ethereal as you travel through the multi-universe.”

I vaporized into my core and visualized my aura hovering above realms inside the multi-universe, just outside of reality, where one plus one, did not equal three. In a moment of both panic and ecstasy, I gave into my faith and passed out from the sheer pleasure of pain. Minutes later, I awoke, drenched in a cold sweat that left my body listless, as a strong voice in my head spoke of secret messages and instructed me to pack my necessary belongings swiftly, for a very long road trip.

CHAPTER IV

[How To Make A Film Titled Crackhead Jesus: The Movie]

“Great! Now we’re getting somewhere. I love road trip movies.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he leaped from the chair and stretched his arms out, like King Kong in a cramped room.

 “It’s not really a road trip movie.” I said, while passing a freshly lit joint, over to The Hebrew Hammer, after he adjusted his tzitzis and yarmulke, in front of a rusted and cum-stained, standing-mirror, at The Welcome Inn.

 “Well then, forget it, because I’m not gonna invest my trust fund money in a B-Movie or arthouse flick about a fat-Jewish-crackhead, who thinks he’s Jesus Christ.”

 “Dude!”

 “Fuck you, man!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Change the title, at least. You can’t call it Crackhead Jesus: The Movie. What were you thinking?”

“Man, obviously, you’re too fucked up to remember. I told you, my gonif Jewish attorney came up with the title, Dude. You said it was ironic, because Jesus was a Jewish carpenter, whatever that means and then you asked, ‘What would Crackhead Hebrew Jesus do? Which I told you was not funny, before you passed out, while I was driving.” I said, accepting the Panama Red he shared.

“Feh! Rumpelstiltskin, that khazer?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, before adding. “He’s a fucking schmoe.”

I nodded confirmation, to which he said, “Screw that, now I’m definitely out of the picture.”

“Dude!” I gasped.

“Marketing Crackhead Jesus, is not like marketing puppies and babies!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in frustration.

“I know, everyone thinks I’m crazy for trying.” I admitted.

“You’re a putz and he’s momzer! I want to see Rumpelstiltskin, promote Crackhead Jesus.” The Hebrew Hammer insisted. “That fat-faced-fuck, he’d have better luck marketing, a dating app for people with herpes and halitosis, to horny teenagers, on spring break.”

“I know it won’t be easy to promote Crackhead Jesus but I trust people will get it.” I argued.

“The same people, who say they wish your Mother had aborted you and call you a fucking cunt, in the name of the Lord?”

“Yes, once they realize Crackhead Jesus is no more offensive than the Washington Redskins or a John Waters film.” I said tenaciously. “People will get the true meaning of Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, one day.”

“Like, ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’, or, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, for the Lied to Generation.” The Hebrew Hammer noted while jotting notes on my script. “We can sell it to distributors, as a new holiday classic and release it Thanksgiving weekend.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he stretched his arms out with flair, to display an imaginary sign in the sky. “Crackhead Jesus is coming and he doesn’t pull out, on billboards and buses, everywhere, during Santa season.”

“I like where you’re going with that idea, Meinschvatz.” I said, without realizing he was being sarcastic. “Crackhead Jesus is the opposite of Jesus Christ. It’s a modern-day parable of redemption about living the Golden Rule in a politically correct world.”

“Abortion is like Crackhead Jesus, some folks get it and some folks don’t. Either way, it’s not funny, so, your film is fucked, from the start.”

“Dude, that’s rude!”

“No! You don’t get it, Dude! Your script is too highbrow and most people, are too stupid to think creatively! That’s why they watch CNN and read The New York Times.” The Hebrew Hammer hollered. “You’ll have better luck selling shit scented air fresheners to the blind, than trying to pitch Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, to the soulless, PC-fucks in Hollywood, believe me, Kid.”

“So, what would you call it?” I asked, earnestly.

“I’d call it, shit in a bag and leave it the fuck alone.” The Hebrew Hammer answered, after exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Listen, Kid, I bet you my balls in a box full of donuts.” He continued, while coughing.

“Why would I want that?” I interrupted the Hebrew Hammer, before my mind wandered off into a realm of existence, where a bag of donuts cost fifteen-thousand dollars.

“It’s not the art. It’s the artist.” The lovely Young Asian Woman, minding the booth for one of the most prestigious fine art galleries in the world, at the Miami Beach Convention Center, during the Inaugural Miami Art Basel, said to me, with heartfelt conviction, in front of my Sister, as A-list celebrities mingled around us, with paparazzi, at the V.I.P. Private Preview reception.

“Fifteen-thousand-dollars?” My Sister asked the smiling Young Asian Woman, while rolling her eyes. “It’s a bag of donuts.”

“It’s a shellacked bag of donuts, inside of a glass case, set on a fancy stand, with a fifteen-thousand-dollar price tag.” I added, while walking around, intently staring at the work of art and trying to make sense of it all.

“We are what we do and our past shapes our present. If you don’t know the artist, you won’t appreciate the art.” The beguiling Young Asian Woman said to us, with a sincere smile, that served to elevate the bag of donuts in my eyes, as I began to understand the meaning of inventiveness and the value of artistry, in both sales and craftsmanship. “And if you can figure out what’s happening to the brain on art, you know a whole lot about the brain.” She added, with an alluring wink.

“Trust me, newspapers in the United States won’t mention your Crackhead Jesus film, in print.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before snapping his fingers, to bring my attention back to the present. “Are you listening to me, Kid? They will censor you. Believe me, no newspaper is going to put Crackhead Jesus in the movie listings.”

“No they won’t.” I answered, as the image of the lovely Young Asian Woman dissipated before my eyes, in a cloud of smoke, that smelled like Patchouli. 

“Alright then, ask your buddy Rumpelstilstkin if he could market Nike or McDonald’s without using their name in social media advertising?”

“The golden arches and swoosh, it’s been done before.” I answered, coyly. “Besides, we have the First Amendment. Free speech.”

“Schmuck, fake newspapers, like The Palm Beach Post, will list your film in all question marks, instead of the title. Do you know how confusing that is, business-wise, to the general public?”

“You’re right. No golden arches, no swoosh, just question marks.” I said, before passing the joint. “What the fuck is that?”

“Censorship!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in frustration, before lowering his tone to thank me for passing him the doobage.

“If people can’t find the movie…” I stuttered, as my eyes opened to the truth in front of me.

“People can’t pay to see it, Kid. Remember, you’re in the entertainment industry and art market, there are no safe spaces, in this cut throat business.” The Hebrew Hammer finished my sentence, in a cloud of smoke, before saying, “Look, the First Amendment doesn’t mean shit to stockholders and you don’t have the kind of money Nike, McDonald’s or the Redskins have, nor any of their expensive big shot lawyers or lobbyists, assisting you, to fight the forces of evil, in the Supreme Court, over the Crackhead Jesus Trademark and censorship, so give it up.”

“Fake news fucks!” I shouted, before thanking him for passing back the doob and taking a puff, then asking, “Did you hear about CNN doxxing?”

“This isn’t David versus Goliath, this is your punk ass versus the Illuminati, as represented by the Witches, at Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich. So, settle the fuck down and listen to me, Kid.” The Hebrew Hammer said, without beating around the bush.  “Adapt or die, because self-pity is pathetic in a leader like you and when light exposes darkness, things can get dangerous. Believe me, I’ve seen the dark side and stared into the eyes of evil. It’s not easy and it sure as hell ain’t pretty.”

“But…” I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, before the Hebrew Hammer railroaded me, into brief silence.

“No buts, Kid. News and gossip is big business, it’s not a constitutional right.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while staring into my eyes. “Let’s write a story about puppies, babies and kittens.”

“I’m not writing a story. I’m painting a diary.” I paused to realize how serious the look in his eyes were, before adding, “Of our world. On canvas.”

“I will pray for you, not to wander off the enlightened path, into the darkness I’ve witnessed. Don’t say I never tried to warn you, Kid.”

“Thanks. I’ll take all the prayers I can get.” I told the Hebrew Hammer, in earnest.

“Look, I meant what I said about Sabbath, I’ll help you with this Crackhead Jesus crap but after that, all you’ll have from me is my prayers.”

“Good enough. Let’s get to work.”

“First of all,” The Hebrew Hammer said, before pausing to flip through several pages of text. “This isn’t really a script, it’s a mish mosh of stuff, I haven’t quite figured out yet. I’m not saying, your writing is bad, I’m just saying, the first couple of chapters and scenes are magic realism.” He paused again. “And, honestly, I’m not willing to invest in that kind of ethereal film, unless you can, somehow, get David Lynch, Michel Gondry, Sofia Coppola or Tim Burton to direct and frankly, even if they were to say yes, I don’t have that kind of money to spend, right now.”

“I can direct it.” I said, without hesitation, knowing I had some experience. 

“Oy-yoy-yoy! You don’t know drek about making movies.” The Hebrew Hammer nearly laughed himself off the chair before continuing, “And I can tell you this, for sure, you don’t know shit about writing a script either, Brother. What you’ve shown me so far, is more like narrative, on a canvas storyboard. Which, is kind of cool, I must admit but seriously, let’s write about a lost pony or something, anything but Crackhead Jesus.”

“You said you would help me finish the script, if I agreed to be your Shabbos goy during Sabbath.” I interrupted. “You think I want to be stuck in this shit-hole with you, writing about some assholes acting like Crackhead Jesus under everyone’s nose, when I can be out partying with rock stars and groupies?”

“I’m a script doctor not a miracle worker but since you’re my Shabbat goy, I’ll give you until the end of Sabbath. After that, you’re on your own, my fraynd.”

 “Oy Vey! Don’t be a dick.” I sighed. “You know in your gut, that I’m on to something.”

“Something strange, for sure.” He laughed, as I stared back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, but only because you’re such a mensch, I’m going to introduce you to Large Marge, my Aunt, in Long Island who used to work for Bear Stearns on Wall Street. She’s produced some movies and she might be crazy enough to invest in your curious film. If, you agree to direct it for free and do some favors for her, like house-sit for her while she visits relatives in DC. Are you allergic to cats?”

“No.” I answered, through cat interaction flashbacks.

“I’ll call her, for you, after Sabbath and give her your number. If she’s interested in anything, she’ll call you.”

 “Thanks, Brother.” I said, giving him a hug.

 “Nishto far vos. Pass the roach and let’s see where this story takes us.” The Hebrew Hammer, said as he gently placed the end of the joint, between his giant fingers, before peering back into the saga of Crackhead Jesus, with new appreciation.

CHAPTER V

[The Roadtrip]

“The Witches are here, open your eyes.” I heard Crackhead Jesus whisper, into the raised hairs on the back of my neck, as I finally surrendered to the powerlessness of a single moment, when I had, willfully, forsaken all hope for the future.

Soul currency from The Three Muses filled my fiber of being, when a vision, so pure, came and shook me to the core of my principles. My barren innards rumbled from an overwhelming sense of despair and confusion that weakened my knees. Like dripping, thick, syrup, I slowly crumbled to the floor. Exposed and crying out for one last chance at redemption, I wept without restraint, for sheer sake of release, and felt free, the moment I humbled myself to the reality of fate, in a pile of human frailty.

That’s when Crackhead Jesus uttered a sound so awful, Earth hiccupped from the butterfly effect of its echo, thrusting humanity into a deep recession of trust, hope and love.

My full submission, spared me from an empty fate, so I awoke instead, to a cold sweat, in a dark room filled with shadows, ghosts and the sound of calm silence. Naked and shivering but unafraid, I jumped out of bed, slipped on my sandals, reached for my robe and rushed to the bathroom, quickly turning on the light, to eliminate the overwhelming darkness.

Standing in front of the streaked mirror, I calmly stared back at my reflection with acceptance rather than hubris. “I am that I am.” I said out loud as I turned both faucets to fill the white porcelain sink with water. “The Golden Rule: It’s just that simple.” I whispered, at a peaceful moment of introspection and self-reflection.

The sound of splashing water rushing down the drain filled the void of silence that echoed throughout the 1924 multi-level, Tudor, in Miami Beach, Florida, that I called home. I looked down, thrust my hands in the water and noticed it was still too cold for my sake.

Curiosity compelled me to look up into the mirror and I found myself staring back at a ghost, in my reflection. My face looked pale and haggard, suddenly, I felt exhausted and full of dread. Staring deep into my mirror image, beyond the wraith, I saw a vision of the Holy Ghost and Saint Michael the Archangel, staring back at me, past the phantom menace.

The same lovely vision of The Three Muses, that saved me from my frightful slumber, was now instructing me to calmly splash warm water on my face.

“Your nightmare is over.” The Three Muses sang, from inside the crowded mirror. “Share your visions and dreams with Light Workers and Indigo children.”

They then instructed me to pack my belongings, for I was about to embark on a long journey. According to The Three Muses, like The Blues Brothers, I was on a mission from God, and my mission was to warn the world, about Crackhead Jesus, through the Modern Art Music Movement.

So, I hastily packed for my pilgrimage, without a doubt in my mind, fitting as much as I could, into my Lexus convertible. I had no idea where my pilgrimage would take me, or how long I would be on the road, but the siren song of The Three Muses echoed a hauntingly beautiful symphony in my head, that compelled me to go west, without fear.  On August 11, 2007, I left my home, as The Maverick Artist, for destinations unknown.

I drove alone, past a tsunami of debt created by unscrupulous bankers and lawyers, that manifested a wave of ‘For Sale’ and ‘Foreclosure’ signs along the beautiful Florida coastline, into the man-made, burning, wild-fires of Alligator Alley, in an elegant, eight-cylinder sports car, towards my destiny, as a visionary artist.

CHAPTER VI

 [WTF]

“Vey is mir! What the fuck is this shit?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, as he threw his arms up in frustration while reading my script at The Welcome Inn.

“Dude!” I shouted, passing him a freshly lit joint.

“Fuck you, Dude!” The Hebrew Hammer screamed, before noticing the fresh doobie being passed his way. “Wait. Thanks.” He said, in a lower tone, before taking a long toke and continuing through clouds of smoke.“It’s like you just threw every freaking topic into a blender and spit it out, on canvas. Is this a faith based film?”

“It could be.” I answered, giving it some thought.

“For members of the XXX Church, maybe.”

“Actually, they’re big fans, I met the Pastor at the International Porn Conference in Miami Beach.” I answered, in a flashback, to young girls, waiting in long lines, with their parents and boyfriends, to get autographs, from Adult Film Stars, preaching the Gospel of Love, inside the magnificent, Miami Beach Convention Center, home of Art Basel Miami.” I interviewed ‘Porn Stars for Peace’ and ‘Porn Stars for Jesus’ while making a documentary titled, ‘The Marketing of Peace’.”

“Make porn, not war!” The Porn Stars for Peace shouted, at Westboro Baptist Church protestors, who were holding up, ‘God hates fags!’ signs and ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ stickers, while being escorted forcefully, out of the private venue, by armed security guards, as the Porn Stars for Jesus hollered, “Jesus loves porn stars, strippers and fags!”

“I want to be just like Jenna Jameson, when I grow up, Mom.” The Blonde Teenage Girl said, to her Mother who patiently waited in line with her son and daughter for Porn Star signatures, as I sat next to the Ultimate Fighting Champion, Tito Ortiz, behind his Girlfriend, the main attraction, Jenna Jameson, while she lovingly signed autographs, for hours.

“I’ll bet.” The Blonde Teenage Girl’s older Step-Brother said, before getting slapped by his Mother, in front of his overly-eager, Step-Father, who was next in line.

“Wow!” I said, in earnest, to the Giant Warrior sitting calmly beside me. “People really like your Girlfriend.”

“Yeah.” Tito Ortiz answered, as his Lover autographed a woman’s bare chest with a marker, in front of an adoring crowd. “They do.”

“Is this some self-help shit for Millennials?” The Hebrew Hammer continued, his interrogation, at The Welcome Inn, while passing me a joint that brought my being back into the moment.

“Why not?” I answered, before inhaling myself into reality.

“Because self-help movies don’t make money. I mean, really, what the fuck kind of film category does, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, fit into?”

“Dark-comedy.” I answered, quickly.

“Is it dark or a comedy? Pick one, Moron!” The Hebrew Hammer ordered, while reaching out for the joint I was passing. “Oh! Thank you.” He said, in a mild tone, before adding, harshly. “Real film producers don’t want to hear about multi-genre movies, it shows them you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Is it dark or is it a comedy, because it can’t be both, not, on my dime?” The Hebrew Hammer insisted before inhaling.

“It’s a comedy.” I answered, while looking in his eyes and pondering the question seriously.

“Well, Crackhead Jesus isn’t funny. I’m sorry to tell you but you’re all over the place, like diarrhea, so I’m not financing this crap.” The Hebrew Hammer paused to take another long hit of the spliff. “There’s no genre here and where are the tits? I’m almost at act two and there are no tits in this script! Unless you plan on having the Three Muses, naked, throughout the movie.” He paused, dead in his tracks, while pacing, before lunging towards pen and paper on table. “Hang on, that might work.” He began scribbling notes on my script, frantically. “Let me see here.”

“Dude, it’s not about tits.” I said in frustration.

“Well it better be, no tits, no money, that’s the Hollywood standard. Realize, I’m not in the business of losing money and neither is my Aunt, so you better find a place for big, fat, tits somewhere in this shitty convoluted script.”

“I planned it as a seven-movie series, so I’m sure…”

“You still don’t get it. Do you?” The Hebrew Hammer interrupted, while passing me a plate, holding a tiny cardboard coffin filled with Maui wowie. “If Crackhead Jesus, the first film flops, there’s no follow up movies and your career is ruined. Capisce?”

“Crackhead Jesus is not going to flop.” I argued, doggedly.

“I’m telling you.” The Hebrew Hammer argued, inflexibly. “You’re beating a dead horse.”

“That’s what they said about Obama and Trump.” I noted.

“What? Stop! Nobody’s buying Crackhead Jesus, you’re better off selling Chinese drywall to the Japanese.” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, provokingly.

“What does that even mean?” I laughed.

“Money! You need money and you ain’t going to get it, with a title like Crackhead Jesus.” The Hebrew Hammer shouted before taking a toke and passing the reefer. “Crackhead Jesus is coming.” He laughed and coughed, while exhaling a cloud of smoke, into the smog filled room. “For fucks sake, Brother, that son of a bitch is already here. Haven’t you been reading the headlines and watching the news?”

“Exactly.” I replied, stubbornly. “The timing is right for Crackhead Jesus: The Movie and in this politically correct world, you’re going to help me make Crackhead Jesus, a household name.”

CHAPTER VII

[Stranger in The Bathroom] 

Between here, there and smack dab in the middle of nowhere, I made my first stop for petrol, at a crowded fueling station owned by the Miccosukee tribe of Indians, in the Florida Everglades. The sign shouted, “$4.99 a gallon” as I slid my credit card into the slot, shoved the nozzle in my gas tank and after securing my vehicle, went off to use the restroom, at the convenience store.

I was surprised to see the words, ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’, screaming at me, from the back of a dirty rental truck that drove past the island, while unattended, deformed, multi-ethnic children, sitting on the curb, pointed at me and snickered, as I walked into the market, feeling dazed and confused.

“Don’t be racist.” The slender White teen, covered in tattoos, sporting no teeth and a face full of pimples, said to me with a scowling look, as I stared at the rude disabled kids, mocking me from outside, while a big government worker, drove off the gas island loudly, in his bright red motorcycle, before the menacing minor added, with a sneer, “Keep walking, fuck-face.”

On my way to the bathroom, as I passed the Twinkies and gummy bears, a woman bumped into me, asking, “You know the Doctor is a serial killer, don’t you?”, while staring deep, into my eyes.

“Who are you?” I asked, the alluring, middle-aged red-head as she held my hands firmly, to steady our suddenly precarious balance, in the candy aisle.

“He knows.” She answered, with alert eyes, scanning the convenience store. “The Doctor watches us.”

I looked around my vicinity but did not see the Doctor, nor anyone I recognized anywhere in sight.

“Give me your number.” She said, while aiming her cell phone at mine.

“I’m not giving you my number.” I answered, while pulling back, as I felt my cell phone vibrate, while her cell phone beeped.

“You just did.” She said, as she rushed off. “I’ll call you with more information, as soon as I find a safe space.”

“Wait!” I shouted, as she grabbed the front door handle to exit.

“Beware of strangers, false prophets and lawyers.”  She said, as she ran out, before driving off.

I noticed a ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ sticker on the back of her car, as she sped onto a dirt road, surrounded by canals and huge, sunbathing, alligators, in a big cloud of smoke, that billowed into the unforgiving Everglades.

On my way to the restroom, I noticed a large graphic novel section in the books, newspaper and magazine area. A title caught my eye, when I met a Woman, looking to purchase a graphic novel for her Son. She claimed, with noticeable shame but without hesitation, that her Son was in prison, for what, I don’t know. I never asked.

The Mother wondered, if I knew anything, about graphic novels and I told her, that as a matter of fact, I was manifesting one, at the moment.

The Woman looked at me while arresting her emotions and said, “There is a groundswell of visionary artists. You are one of them, I can tell. You have plunged yourself into the redemptive mission of art, in its purest form, echoing the creation of cosmos and dark matter through the Modern Art Music Movement, producing sacred universal images, full of hope and redemption, for future generations, to understand how they got there.”

Then, she began asking me, about Superman and Spiderman, in an unusual panic.

She was terrified of not knowing much about either superhero or villains but most of all, she feared disappointing her Son, in prison.

“My Son loves both” The Mother choked on her words. “He said, he wanted to be Superman one day.”

I reassured her that no matter what work of art she chose for her Son, he and the other inmates, would appreciate her warm, loving gesture. I told her that she was a good mother.

She stared into my eyes, for what seemed an eternity, with the intense grief and horror of a Mother, who’s lost her son to an unforgiving penitentiary.

I advised her not to worry but rather, to take solace in knowing that her action would bring moments of joy into her son’s miserable life.

“My son was gang raped in jail and now he’s pregnant.” The Convict’s Mother did all but hug me with her eyes, when, holding back tears, she noticed me do a double take and whispered, “Nothing is by chance. There was a reason I met you, today. Thank you, Picasso.”

We never physically touched but our souls met, when we commiserated, in the graphic novel aisle, while sharing appreciation for heroes and our freedom to choose, between Spider Man and Super Man, in a world full of saints and sinners.

When I entered the surprisingly clean, white-tiled men’s room, I noticed a burly man, with white hair and chubby cheeks, exiting one of the bathroom stalls near fresh smelling graffiti. He wore a grey Armani suit and approached me like an ogre saying, “The Temple of Justice has been desecrated.”

He tried handing me a sealed, five-ounce, silver container, with his meaty paws, while saying, “You are the wise elder, Victor Hugo, reincarnated, to scribe the story of the Modern American Revolution.”

“Take this, Maverick Artist, you will need it.” The Stranger said, grabbing my wrist while placing the container in my open hand.

He noticed my hesitation and alarm, as I looked around the empty bathroom nervously, while attempting to return the gift he gave and adamantly, refused to take back.

“No worries, relax.” He said, with a genuine nature, that transformed the unfamiliar person, into someone more manageable. “The Three Muses sent me. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to guide you through your journey.”

“You didn’t wash your hands.” I said, as he tried shaking mine.

“Things aren’t always what they seem. It’s kind of like, watching a video of Adolph Hitler, handing a pretty young girl some flowers, at the German Olympics. The sweet moment doesn’t reflect reality in history, does it?”

“What?”

“In the material world, it’s easier to handle and remember good experiences, than it is to forget bad memories but we all try. Time heals all wounds but not in the spiritual realm. There, evil lingers in instinct, right beside goodness. Do you understand, Kid?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Call me Newt Gingrich, for now, until I get to know you, Kid.”

“What?”

“You ask too many questions. Listen and learn. These are clues I’m giving you. Trust your instinct. Beware of false prophets and lawyers and realize which witch is which, on your journey, Kid. Always, make sure you know which Witch is true, when it comes to the Wich’s, do you understand?”

“You’re speaking in riddles. Here, take this back, I don’t want it.” I said, during a failed attempt to return the silver container.

“I can’t take it back, it’s yours. The Three Muses told me to give it to you.”

“What is this?” I asked, staring at the silver container without opening the lid.

“The Flow.” He answered. “It will help you see past the truth but use it sparingly.”

A gust of wind forced the bathroom door open. A tall, pale-faced man in blue jeans and a t-shirt that read, ‘This is my horny look’, walked in and headed directly for the stall, from which Newt Gingrich had emerged. I instinctively put the container away, in my pocket, where it weighed heavily on my new blue jeans.

“Flawed people can do good things, remember that, Kid.” The pale-faced stranger whispered, as he glided past Newt Gingrich and I. “Trust your instinct.”

Newt Gingrich, winked at me, before drifting off like a phantom, past the swinging door, as he exited the public restroom. I heard the man in the toilet stall flush then witnessed a flash of bright light shoot up to the ceiling, as I ran towards the exit. When I swung the door open, I realized that Newt Gingrich had vanished into memory.

I searched throughout the convenience store for Newt Gingrich but all I could find was Twizzlers, Red Bull, Marlboro and issues of Penthouse, Juggs and Barely Legal, wrapped in plastic, behind the bulletproof counter. I looked past the coated windows, advertising fresh brewed coffee and two for one hot dogs, searching for truth, inside islands of gas, surrounded by SUV’s, mini-vans, and Hummer’s, but all I found when I surveyed the scene, was a lonely world, full of lost souls. So, I returned to my car and drove off into the open road, realizing that I would find neither truth, nor answers, in the present state.

CHAPTER VIII

[Large Marge]

“My nephew says you want to make a movie named Crackhead Jesus with Newt Gingrich.” Large Marge said, as she placed a tray of cold cuts and cheese in front of me with a great big smile, in the living room, of her Orient Point home, in the Town of Southold, in Suffolk County, New York.

“Actually.” I said, before being interrupted.

“Did you notice, when you came here, that we’re just steps away from the entrance to the top secret, highest security classification, United States federal research facility containing Biosafety Level 4 labs on Plum Island?” Large Marge asked, in one long, quivering, breath, when I realized, why she had been given the description, by those closest to her; the woman was undeniably big, in ways that made her being, larger than life.

“Yes. I saw the ferry entrance, just off the tip of Long Island’s North Fork.”

“This whole place can be quarantined, at any minute, if biocontainment of transboundary animal diseases at Plum Island is compromised. Just, so you know.” She said, while shoving bacon, into her sausage filled mouth, in front of me. “That place is nicknamed, Anthrax Island, by well-informed conspiracy theorists.”

“That can’t be good.” I said, in horror.

“No, it’s not. Erich Traub, the Godfather of Plum Island, was a Nazi scientist recruited by Heinrich Luitpold Himmler, Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel. He had a plan to inject disease into ticks and release them, as an army of bio weapons. That’s why I’m so fat. That Nazi gave me Lyme disease.” Large Marge explained, between bites, of sliced Italian meats and images of CNN breaking news silently in the background.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said, sincerely, after taking a sip of water and asking, “Is the tap water here, safe to drink?”

“Don’t worry, this ain’t Flint. I got filters, Kid, drink up.” Large Marge said, while winking at me. “Tell you what, I bet Crackhead Jesus is all over Plum Island. That place is a terrorist target. Look up, Montauk Monster. The case is unsolved.”

I poured hot sauce over everything on my plate, to extinguish any germs or virus.

“Oh!” Large Marge exclaimed, while convulsing, as if she were having an orgasm. “And security on Plum Island, runs on the honor system. So, workers exposed to foot and mouth disease, are told, not to have pets, visit zoos or pet shops.” Large Marge snickered. “As if that alone, would prevent employees, from bringing home any virus, that could potentially cause a pandemic.”

“Really?” I asked, dubiously.

“Look, I’m not saying this to scare you or anything, Kid. It’s just, you’ve got to know where you’re at, as my houseguest and where you’re at, for the next week, is in an Emergency Planning Zone.”

“Oh, no!” I said, as I watched masticated food particles, fly from her yapping mouth, onto silver trays, filled with snacks.

“Oh, yes!” Large Marge exclaimed, while convulsing, as if she were having another orgasm. “You may have noticed, pole-mounted sirens, when you got within a ten-mile radius of this place and I don’t need you freaking out, if you hear the emergency warning sirens because we’re in an EPZ.  They usually schedule it on Wednesday mornings but sometimes alarms go off without warning and the noise can be frightening, especially when you realize it’s a hothouse for catastrophe next door.”

“So what do you do if the alarm sounds?” I asked, concerned and disgusted by the scene.

“Tune into a local radio or television station for more information on what to do, Kid, then, bend over and kiss your ass goodbye.”

“That’s crazy.” I said, while watching Large Marge spew, chewed-up Polish sausage bits, into the bread pudding, as she guffawed over her wit and rolled around in her chair.

“Just make sure you cover yourself up around here. I mean, you can run around naked in the house, if you wish. Don’t let me stop you.” Large Marge smiled, with swollen cheeks full of food and globs of mayonnaise, loitering around her botoxed lips. “I won’t mind, I’ve seen naked before but remember, Lyme disease. Don’t let a tick get on your prick, or you’ll be screwed and not in a good way. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, Kid.” She winked at me while licking mayonnaise from her lips seductively.

I made pretend not to notice but she was on to me.

“So, Newt Gingrich, huh, isn’t he that fat, fuck-faced, Christian, Conservative, that handed his wife divorce papers, while she was on her death bed?” Large Marge asked, while shoving globs of wet meat in her mouth. “He’s a real macher. He’d be perfect to play Crackhead Jesus. How much does he want?”

“Holy cow!” I said when the truth dawned on me. “That, would be brilliant casting, but no, that’s not what I meant. It’s metaphor.”

“You’ve got to stop with the metaphor shit, Kid. My Nephew warned me about that with you.” Large Marge chuckled, as she rolled over, to pick up my script, with hands full of red, hot-sauce and grease.

“Oh, no!” I said, watching grease and red hot stains, get on the pages of my opus.

“I’m sorry.” She said, licking smudge marks, from her huge fingers while wiping off the pages. “Now, I’m going to be absolutely honest with you, Kid. I’m on page five of your script and I don’t see tits, anywhere. My Nephew didn’t say anything about this to me. You want me, to produce a fucking children’s book, is that what you’re here for?”

CHAPTER IX

[The Road to Alabama, From Miami Beach, In A Crackhead Jesus Cab, With Elvis Presley.]

At twilight, I witnessed a Crackhead Jesus cab, pull up in front of a diner, just past the, ‘Welcome to Alabama the beautiful’, sign, on the Florida border, moments after I realized that Google was subliminally using handicapped children, LGBTQ’s, Muslims, Jews, young girls and minorities, to openly promote satanic symbols, on Google Search engines.  

“No way.” I said to myself, inside the empty diner, before the waitress stepped out from the sterile kitchen, as I looked up from my Android, in disbelief at what I witnessed, staring past the sign on the window, that claimed, the coffee I tasted, was the best in all of Alabama.

“I’ll take a cup of this beautiful state’s best coffee.” The Taxi Driver said, to the waitress, as he took a seat beside me, at the long, empty, lunch counter.

“Holy shit, Mister, I just picked up Elvis Presley and drove the King here, from Miami Beach, non-stop.” The Taxi Driver said, as he slapped my back in a friendly, non-threatening gesture. “It’s a fucking miracle! Not once, did we stop to piss, or get gas, I swear! I just realized that, Mister. Like the loaves and fish. We never ran out of gas! The tank is still half-full!”

“Here you go, Mister.” The Waitress said, as she placed a steaming cup of black coffee in front of the excited Taxi Driver, while handing him a menu. “Cream and sugar is on the counter.”

“Thank you.” The Taxi Driver said, while sorting through a wad of hundred-dollar bills, wrapped in a rubber band.

“Anything else?” The Waitress asked, with a look of disgust, while staring past him, at the bold, banner, on top of his yellow cab, that proclaimed loudly: ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming… (And He Doesn’t Pull Out) Crackheadjesus.com’.

“Elvis is alive, Man. I picked the King up at the Miami Beach Hilton. He was in the back of my cab for 12 hours.” The Taxi Driver said, as he poured sugar into his coffee. “He said my cab saved his life. He’s the fifth person, with suicidal tendencies, I’ve saved this week. It’s like all the lost souls are drawn to my cab.”

“They think there’s a comma after Crackhead.” I said after taking a sip of my coffee and looking back down, at my Android, in total disbelief. It was then I realized, that nobody in the fake-news-world had noticed, that Google was promoting the Devil around the globe, while Cox was promoting Crackhead Jesus, all over America.

 “Yeah! Before getting in the cab, they all look at me, with a blank stare, like they had just seen a ghost. They all say the taxi spoke to them, personally. They describe it as getting hit by lightning, inside of a question mark. Then they jump in my ride, with tears in their eyes and ask me to take them to the closest rehab or emergency room. Every one, thinks it’s a sign, from God.”

“Well, it’s not Mister. Some fucking asshole, who should have been aborted and is for sure taking the Hell-express, paid for that sign on top of your cab, calling my Lord, Jesus Christ, a crack-head and I don’t like it one bit. I find it downright offensive and I wish you wouldn’t park it in front of this diner. You’re offending my customers.” The waitress said, while looking over at me intensely, for back up, from behind thick glasses.

“I’m the asshole.” Is what I felt like telling the pious Waitress, while looking around the empty restaurant but instead, I said, “I don’t see, your Lord or Christ, anywhere.”

“What customers?” The Taxi driver asked, after scoping out the diner, by swiveling around, on his bar stool.

“Right there, on that taxi’s billboard, in black and white, it says Jesus Christ was a crack-head.” The Waitress pointed, with a long and bony index finger, covered in gold rings.

“Actually, Richard Pryor invented crack in the 80’s.” The Taxi Driver noted, nonchalantly, while scanning the menu. “Besides, the name, Christ, is nowhere in that message, Lady. I should know, I’ve been driving that cab for a month now, the most profitable month I’ve ever had in my life.”

“I just don’t see what you say, Maam.” I spoke softly, after reflecting on what the Taxi Driver had experienced. “I see Dada.”

“Are you retarded, illiterate or blind, Kid?” The Waitress took off her black glasses and wiped them after breathing on the lenses, before attempting to hand them to me, sarcastically, with a raised eyebrow, full of reckoning.

“I see art, in this light, to be blue and white.” I said with poetic conviction, while looking out at the contentious sign, through glistening dust, dancing in the purple haze, that looked like people protesting their own futile existence, as sunlight dissipated slowly, into the nebulous ether of memories past.

“It’s a sign of the times.” The Taxi Driver noted after sipping his coffee. “Things change.”

“You two boys are crazy.” The Waitress said, before putting on her vintage glasses to stare out at the Crackhead Jesus Cab, through illegal aliens, cleaning her storefront window.

She gave me a dirty look when I said, “His cab doesn’t offend me any, I get it. It’s obviously, metaphor, in a work of performance art. What Would Jesus Do?” I asked her.

“I bet you the liberal media wouldn’t dare say that sort of shit about Mohammad. Muslims practicing Sharia Law couldn’t care less about the First Amendment, free speech, art or Women’s Rights.” The Waitress said, to the Taxi Driver, with venom in her eyes, that darkened her aura and dimmed the lights inside the diner. “You liberal-Dems are fucking nuts.”

“No offense, Lady, it’s just thought provoking art on a cab.” I said, wholeheartedly. “Besides, I’m not a Democrat. I’m a registered Republican.”

“So you’re a racist, Nazi.” The Waitress said, under her breath, before adding, with a saucy curled lip, “You probably watch CNN, too.”

“Not, that it should make any difference because I am first and foremost a unique human being.” I said before sipping some coffee while looking around at the hired help doing busy work. “Just like you, him and all the illegal aliens that help you run this place, so you can afford that nice, beehive-wig you are wearing.”

The Waitress rolled her eyes while Yogi Bear beat CNN on silent television screens above her head.

“Why hate creativity?” The Taxi Driver asked. “Besides, Lady, I’m a Conservative Republican too, so watch your stereotypes. Not all people are bad. Don’t be a Crackhead Jesus.”

“Sharia Law wouldn’t put up with liberal media promoting blasphemy in Saudi Arabia. Believe me, Mister, if you were driving a cab, like the one you parked outside this restaurant, with the name Mohammad on it, in some Middle East Countries, you’d be dead before leaving the parking lot and saying that doesn’t make me Islamophobic or racist, it’s the truth.”

“I never said you were either.” The Taxi Driver responded, earnestly. “God bless America.”

“It makes me proud to live in a country where every asshole has a right to speak, no matter how stupid, because people, en masse, regardless of race, religion or politics, have common sense enough to appreciate the immense value of free speech and art in a civil society.” I said, while the Waitress fumed over a pot of hot coffee. “Art keeps things real.”

“That fake-black-savior, Obama, ruined this once great nation.” The Waitress said, recoiling from me, as if I had just farted out loud and stunk the place up. “I voted for that son-of-a-bitch twice and the colored’s around here, still think I’m racist.”

“Don’t look at me. I never voted for him. I ran for President against Obama and McCain in 08, as an independent, dark-horse candidate.” I said after sipping my coffee. “You should have voted for an artist, not a lawyer, if you wanted real change in this world.”

“Whatever, I never heard of you.” The Waitress said, while rolling her eyes. “I blame it all on that false prophet and biased media that sold everyone fake change. Obama only served to divide our country and destroy healthcare!”

“He did nothing for blacks and I’ll tell you what, I think Obama and the Clinton Machine are in cahoots with Iran and Russia.” The Taxi Driver said.

“That Iran nuclear deal, is a joke.” The Waitress said.

“Why’d Obama, let Clinton, give Russia, U.S. Uranium, in exchange, for big-money contributions, to the Clinton Machine?” The Taxi Driver asked.

“Why did Obama allow unmarked-cash ransom, to be paid to the biggest state sponsor of terrorism?” The Waitress asked the Taxi Driver, as she stared out at his cab, with red hot fury, steaming from her pasty face.

“He’s a Manchurian mole.” The Taxi Driver answered. “Illuminati.”

“Whatever, don’t believe the fake news.” The Waitress said, before crossing her arms, taking a deep breath and rolling into, ” That half-Black, Muslim, ruined our country. Obama isn’t fooling anybody with that fake birth certificate and transgender wife, to hide his being a faygala.”

“I hear Michelle’s penis, is bigger than Obama’s.” The Taxi Driver noted, with a snicker under his menu.

“What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?” I asked the Waitress, before she gave me the evil eye and stormed off towards the kitchen, without taking the Taxi-Driver’s order.

“Anyway, everyone left me huge tips, in cash that says, ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ and asks, ‘What would Crackhead Jesus do?’.” The Cab Driver pointed out what he meant, as he recounted his wad of money in front of me, with eyes wide open and a big, toothy grin.

“I hope she didn’t spit in my food.” I said, to the Taxi Driver, as the Waitress walked towards me, carrying a Reuben sandwich, on a plate full of crispy, French-fries.

“Hallelujah! Elvis just gave me the biggest tip I ever got in my life!” The Taxi Driver shouted, before tossing another hundred-dollar bill, from his fat roll of cash, at the despondent Waitress, with a wink and sincere smile, saying, “This deplorable fellas meal, is on me, Miss and please, keep the change.”

CHAPTER X

[The Art of Writing A Screenplay Using Canvas Storyboards]

“No tits! Narrishkeit! I’m looking at a hundred and twenty pages here, Kid.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he tossed my script down on the edge of the moldy bed, on top of the cum stained comforter, underneath the sleeping bag I lay inside, as a barrier, from the filth, that surrounded me, at The Welcome Inn. “That’s a minute a page, at a hundred-thousand- dollars per page, if you go SAG. Nobody’s going to finance a two-hour movie by an unproven talent in Hollywood. You are not James Cameron or Leonardo DiCaprio, so forget about Crackhead Jesus.”

“The matrix is changing. Hollywood is not what it used to be and technology is making independent film a viable option for projects like this.” I said, while grabbing the script and wiping the cover page down with a sanitary wipe.

“We’d have to chop off enough fat to get your film in under ninety minutes.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while rolling a joint.

“I set it up as a seven-movie-series.”

“Stop, with the seven-movie-series nonsense! You sound amateur. I’ve told you already, if number one flops there is no number two. All you have now is bupkes on toast; hold the toast, because you got nothing.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before licking the rolling paper to seal the marijuana cigarette in his hand. “Here, light this for me, please, while I take another look at your script. I’ll chop it up for you and add some tits and ass, so you can show it to my aunt in New York.” 

I traded his reefer for my script and we both got to work.

“First of all, you’ve got to start where the action is, no one has time for bobbymyseh, bullshit.” The Hebrew Hammer said. “What you’ve got here, is a series of non-sequiturs that go absolutely nowhere and mean fuck nothing.” The Hebrew Hammer paused to take a toke from the lit joint I passed him. “Yet, somehow and I haven’t figured out why, it works. I want to know what happens next.”

 “I’m using artistic metaphor and a character named Crackhead Jesus to show audiences how pernicious political correctness, fueled by fake news media and toxic leadership, has raised concern for micro-aggression over macro-aggression.” 

“That threatens to destroy democracy in America, I get it, but nobody gives a fuck. People don’t want to feel depressed or educated when they go to the movies, they want to be uplifted and ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’, doesn’t sound like the feel-good-movie of the year, Kid.”

“It’s not supposed to be.” I said.

“Well, let’s see what we can do to change that, shall we?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while I looked on in disgust, as he rearranged, on the stained carpet, the canvas-story-boards that I had meticulously created, to tell the tale of Crackhead Jesus.

CHAPTER XI

[The Hurricane]

BLACK SCREEN:

ARTIST (NARRATION Voice Over (V.O.))

Life is beautiful chaos.

ARTIST, DRESSED IN BLACK PAINTERS OVERALLS, WEARING STARS AND STRIPES LIKE A COWBOY, CARRYING EASEL, PAINTS, BRUSHES AND SPRAY PAINT CANS IN A CLEAR BAG WALKS INTO DIM LIT STARK WHITE PADDED CELL, WITH HUGE OVERHEAD SPEAKERS BLASTING NIN, CLOSER.

ARTIST (V.O.)

Nothing is by chance.

ARTIST PROCEEDS TO ANIMATE THE PADDED WALLS WITH PICTURES IN WORDS, LEAVING CANVAS BLANK.

ARTIST (NARRATION V.O.)

Our souls are eternally connected.

ARTIST BRUSHSTROKES ANIMATE A BLACK BUNNY RUNNING ACROSS BLANK WHITE CANVAS ON EASEL, INTO STORM.

FADE IN:

EXTERIOR – MIAMI BEACH – HIGH RISE CONDO – SUNRISE

CHEM TRAILS FILL SKY OVER, GLASS MONOLITH, CASTING A DARK SHADOW OVER OCEAN, AS OMINOUS HURRICANE CLOUDS ROLL IN FROM DISTANCE.

THUNDER DIAMOND WIPE TO –

– INT: ENCLOSED PENTHOUSE LEVEL HALLWAY OF MAMMOTH HIGH RISE AT EARLY STAGE OF HURRICANE WARNING – FLICKERING LIGHT – OSTENTATIOUS – CHEAP CHIC

UNIFORMED MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR, 40’s, HAIRY, Latin, races – PANICKED, POUNDS on doors OF RESTING RESIDENTS as MOTHER trails crying CHILD carrying a BRIGHT RED PLASTIC FUNNEL SPILLING MULTICOLORED MARBLES while chasing her PET – A BLACK BUNNY, NAMED COPERNICUS.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (THICK ACCENT)

Get out! The building’s not safe! Save yourselves! Get out!

Bleary eyed residents poke their heads out doors as MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR runs down hallway, screaming, TOWARDS PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR unwittingly BUMPS INTO BUM, 40’s, unfit, UNKEMPT, KNOCKING HIM TO GROUND AS THE BLACK BUNNY SCURRIES PAST HIS SCRUFFY BEARD.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR POUNDS ON DOOR OF PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 AS BUM PICKS UP SPINAL SCREW HE NOTICES AT EYE LEVEL.

ARTIST PAINTS, BUM, WRAPPING LONG, SCARY-LOOKING, SPINAL-SCREW, INSIDE A torn sheet of BUILDING PLANS IN BUMS BACK POCKET.

HURRICANE EVACUATION CHAOS mounts IN ROOFTOP HALLWAY AS SCANTILY CLAD RESIDENTS BEGIN TO EVACUATE ICONIC HI-RISE BUILDING A PANIC.

BUM folds sheet over SPINAL SCREW and slips it into a WIKI Airline Boarding Pass folder as CNN SCREAMS HEADLINES, ABOUT JUMBO JETS VANISHING OUT OF THIN AIR, OVER MALAYSIAN SKIES, WHEN A BIG BREASTED LATIN WOMAN, WITH COLORFUL ROLLERS IN HER HAIR, OPENS FRONT DOOR OF HER APARTMENT IN A BRIGHT TOWEL, THAT FLIES OFF FROM GUST OF WIND AND VACUUM CREATED BY LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM IN HALLWAY AS TORNADO APPROACHES OUTSIDE GLASS MONOLITH.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR POUNDS ON DOOR WITH EYES ON WOMANS CHEST AND POSTERIOR AS SHE SCREAMS AND RUNS BACK INTO HER APARTMENT, STRUGGLING TO SHUT FRONT DOOR AGAINST LOW PRESSURE SYSTEM BETWEEN OPEN SLIDING GLASS DOORS OF BALCONY IN HER APARTMENT AND HALLWAY WITH OPEN ELEVATOR SHAFT.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (POUNDS ON DOOR WITH EYES ON WOMAN)

Wake up, Senor Artista! El Doctor lied. The windows are not up to code y los sprinklers no work!

AUDIO SEGWAY – THUNDER TO –

FLASHBACK

DAY: CALM – SUNRISE

INTERIOR: LOWER LEVEL – GRAND VIEW PALACE APARTMENT – UNDER RENOVATION

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (James-Comey-Cowardly)

Pero, Señor. (TAKES TWO STEPS DOWN FROM TOP OF LADDER, while POINTING AT DANGEROUS ELECTRICAL WORK NEAR FAULTY SPRINKLER SYSTEM PIPES.) Me no think is safe for me to do this.

DOCTOR (Loretta-Lynch-Like)

There’s no need to call my friends at ICE. (GRABS FIRM HOLD OF MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR TESTICLES.) After you are done building the wall, (POINTS TO TOXIC Chinese drywall IN CORNER OF ROOM) you are going to re-route the sprinkler system in this unit. Do as I say, Señor. I trust you comprende, not to fuck with El Doctor.

AUDIO SEGWAY – THUNDER TO –

INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL – FLICKERING LIGHT –

BUM EXITS DOWN, claustrophobic, bare, STAIRWELL, SCREAMING.

BUM

Crackhead Jesus is coming! (THUNDER)

INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL PENTHOUSE LEVEL BETWEEN FLOORS – DIM LIT

BUM LOOKS DOWN OVER BANNISTER, INTO WHITE FACE OF TALL, SLENDER MAN IN LAB-COAT, OVER A BLACK HOODY SWEATSHIRT, HIDING BEHIND A SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK, WEARING SURGICAL GLOVES, HURRYING DOWNSTAIRS CARRYING ARCHITECTURAL PLANS & BLACK LEATHER MEDICAL BAG.

IN SHADOWS BUM has EPIPHANY beside evacuees and ECHOES doomsday WARNING thru cavernous STAIRWAY to MAN IN LAB-COAT.

BUM  (TERRIFIED)

Crackhead Jesus is coming!

MAN IN LAB-COAT looks up, as EMERGENCY EXIT DOOR OPENS TO RUSH OF PANICKED RESIDENTS SLAMMING THE OFF-GUARD BUM AGAINST CONCRETE WALL, CONJURING FLASHBACKS OF METHEAD GRINCH’S FINAL MOMENTS.

BUM (FALLS SCREAMING)

Crackhead Jesus is coming!

SLOW MOTION – MAN IN LAB-COAT SLIPS, ON POLAROID PICTURE, IMPALED INTO A VOODOO DOLL WITH A LONG BLOODY SPINAL SCREW AND SLIPS TO A SITTING POSITION, AS HIS BLACK LEATHER MEDICAL BAG CRASHES DOWN STAIRS, SPILLING GRUESOME SURGICAL EQUIPMENT, ON TOP OF UNFURLING BUILDING PLANS, BEING STEPPED ON, BY NERVOUS, EVACUATING RESIDENTS, AS BUILDING SWAYS TO AND FRO.

POLAROID PICTURE is torn FREE FROM VOODOO DOLL AND IN THE CHAOS OF EVACUATING FEET, IS SWEPT UP IN A GUST OF WIND THAT FLOWS TOWARDS BUM.

BUM (EXCITED)

Ask Meth-Head-Grinch!

BUM SNATCHES POLAROID PICTURE AS IT FLOATS TOWARDS HIM.

BUM (MYSTIFIED)

The ghost of G-Rod Miller!

FLASHBACK:

INTERIOR: STERILE OPERATING THEATER IN HOSPITAL

ROOM FULL OF NURSES AND SURGEONS WORK IN SHIFTS TO ASSIST THE DOCTOR IN RADICAL TWENTY HOUR, SURGERY TO REMOVE A TUMOR AND NINE INCHES OF SPINE FROM PATIENT.

DURING PROCEDURE PATIENT’S NAKED BODY IS SUSPENDED HORIZONTALLY FROM THE CEILING SO THAT SURGEONS CAN OPERATE AT EYE LEVEL FRONT AND BACK.

BLOOD PASSES INTO PATIENT’S LEGS THROUGH TUBES TO MAINTAIN CIRCULATION.

DOCTOR SMILES THROUGH SURGICAL MASK AS HE LOOKS THROUGH PATIENT’S ABDOMINAL CAVITY AND SEES THE SHOCKED FACE OF ANOTHER SURGEON THROUGH THE MASSIVE HOLE.

SURGEON (Amazed)

He’ll be three inches shorter but his own muscles and scar tissue should form a sling around the spine and that should prevent further shrinkage.

NURSE (Excited)

You performed a miracle Doctor!

DOCTOR (SMUG)

Fire and fury. That’s why they call me, God. Close him up. I’m done here.

INTERIOR: STERILE HOSPITAL LOCKER ROOM – CNN SCREAMS FAKE NEWS HEADLINES about CHELSEA CLINTON AND CRACKHEAD JESUS, FROM FLAT SCREEN TV’S HANGING ON WALLS.

DOCTOR HUMS A SPINE-CHILLING TUNE, AS HE WASHES HIS VICTIM’S BLOOD OFF SCRUBS AND SHOWERS IN LOCKER ROOM.

DOCTOR IN PINK LACE UNDERGARMENTS, BEFORE LEAVING, CALMLY PUTS ON A FRESH SET OF SURGICAL GLOVES, AFTER SPRITZING POWDER ON HIS HANDS AND EXPENSIVE COLOGNE ON HIS WRISTS, ARMS AND NECK.

DOCTOR ADJUSTS HIS COLORFUL SILK TIE IN MIRROR BEFORE GRABBING HIS BLACK LEATHER SURGICAL BAG OFF COUNTER.

INTERIOR: HALLWAY – CROWDED HOSPITAL EMERGENCY ROOM

CNN SCREAMS FAKE NEWS HEADLINES ON MUTED FLAT SCREEN TV HANGING FROM CEILING ABOVE NURSES STATION.

DOCTOR, WEARING FRESH SURGICAL GLOVES AND GIANVITO ROSSI SUEDE CUISSARD BLACK HIGH HEELED BOOTS UNDER A HANDCRAFTED SUIT, STRUTS INTO AREA FULL OF WAILING PATIENTS, ON STRETCHERS, IN AGONY AND GIVES EACH INVALID A GREAT BIG SMILE, AS HE CONFIDENTLY STRIDES OUT OF the HOSPITAL humming wickedly.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

EXTERIOR: EMERGENCY ROOM STAFF PARKING LOT AREA –  DAY – CHEM TRAILS CRISS-CROSS SKY AS STORM CLOUDS FORM IN DISTANCE.

THUNDER ROARS AS DOCTOR CALMLY OPENS DOOR TO HIS BENTLEY AND STEPS INSIDE DRIVERS SEAT.

DOCTOR STARES AT DEFORMED, BLIND PICKETER AS HE REACHES UNDER SEAT AND GRABS LETTER SIZE ENVELOPE STAMPED IN RED INK WITH THE WORDS, “TOP SECRET”.

AS ILLEGAL ALIEN APPROACHES CAR HOLDING AN I’M READY FOR HILLARY BUMBER STICKER, THE DOCTOR PULLS OUT A TYPED PAGE TITLED: “THE CLINTON DEATH LIST: CLINTONCIDE – MR. SETH RICH GRINCH”.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR USES HAND-CARVED, WOODEN-BACK-SCRATCHER, IN HARD TO REACH PLACES WHILE FLIPPING OFF PROTESTORS, BEFORE TURNING OFF HIS CELL PHONE.

CLOUDS UNLEASH MASSIVE DELUGE, DISSAPATING CROWD OF SOGGY PROTESTORS, AS SMILING DOCTOR DRIVES OUT OF PARKING LOT, INTO RAVAGING STORM.

IN THE BACK SEAT ARE GRAND VIEW PALACE BUILDING PLANS, A LARGE METAL RING FULL OF KEYS, A HORRIFICALLY LONG, STERILE, SPINAL SCREW, BLACK CANDLES and A WIKI Airline Boarding Pass folder, WITH A TICKET TO Geneva International Airport in SWITZERLAND, PROTRUDING FROM POCKET.

DOCTOR DRIVES PAST CRACK WHORES CLIMBING ROOFTOPS AND WEAVES THROUGH TRAFFIC, ONTO BUSY HIGHWAY, humming, while listening to talk radio, WITH BOTH, SURGICAL GLOVE WEARING HANDS, ON THE WHEEL.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

EXT: GHETTO – TENEMENT BUILDING – RAIN SLICKED STREETS – DUSK

BUM HIDING, BEHIND DUMPSTER, WATCHES AS DOCTOR, WEARING CLEAN SURGICAL GLOVES, PULLS BENTLEY INTO ABANDONED LOT BEHIND RUN DOWN BUILDING FULL OF GRAFFITI AND VERMIN AS LIGHTNING CRACKLES IN PURPLE SKY.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR STEPS OUT OF CAR WEARING A SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK AND CALMLY PUTS ON LAB-COAT, OVER HIS BLACK HOODY SWEATSHIRT, BEFORE ENTERING TENEMENT BUILDING, THROUGH TRASH AREA.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

INTERIOR: CLAUSTROPHOBIC LAUNDRY ROOM – DARK – DINGY – GRAFFITI ON WALLS – NO PEOPLE – RATS AND ROACHES DANCE in SHADOWS –  ‘OUT OF ORDER’ SIGNS ADORN ALL BROKEN MACHINES.

DOCTOR GRABS A PAIR OF NINJA SHOES, FROM ATOP BROKEN VENDING MACHINE, BEFORE WALKING THROUGH A SECRET COMPARTMENT BEHIND IT.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR WALKS THROUGH SECRET COMPARTMENT BEHIND BROKEN VENDING MACHINE.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

INTERIOR: SECRET STAIRWELL – ALMOST PITCH DARK BUT FOR DINGY YELLOW LIGHTS.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR MAKES HIS WAY THROUGH DIMLY LIT LABYRINTH OF GRAFFITI FILLED HALLWAYS WITHIN BOWELS OF RUN-DOWN TENEMENT BUILDING.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR REACHES PITCH BLACK STAIRWELL AND TURNS ON SMALL FLASHLIGHT TO LEAD HIS ASCENT TO TOP FLOOR OF BUILDING.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR COUNTS STEPS, and hums, AS HE HOLDS ONTO THE RUSTY HAND RAIL, WEARING SURGICAL GLOVES, WHILE DELIBERATELY CLIMBING RICKETY STAIRS, in NINJA TABI BOOTS, THROUGH DARKNESS UNPERTURBED BY THE LOUD CLAPPING SOUND OF THUNDER OUTSIDE.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

INTERIOR: DARK, DIRTY HALLWAY COVERED IN GRAFFITI – LIGHTS FLICKER

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR EXITS DARK STAIRWELL THROUGH DOOR MARKED ’10TH FLOOR’ IN FADING NUMBERS AND LETTERS.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

DOCTOR CALMLY WALKS PAST FILTH TO FRONT DOOR OF APARTMENT 1010 BEFORE STOPPING.

DOCTOR MAKES A FIST AND KNOCKS THREE TIMES ON GRAFFITI COATED DOOR OF APARTMENT 1010.

DOCTOR (Hums)

Suffer the niggers, spics and illegal aliens, for they shall be blessed, because they are the sheep in my world.

INTERIOR: APARTMENT 1010 – FILTHY, DINGY, DRUG ADDICT HAVEN

METHHEAD GRINCH IS PASSED OUT ON HIS COUCH TRIPPING ON HEROINE AS RADIOHEAD, ‘BURN THE WITCH’, PLAYS IN BACKGROUND OVER MUTED 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV WITH CNN BREAKING NEWS HEADLINES FLASHING ACROSS SCREEN.

MOMENTS PASS BEFORE DOCTOR, humming, SEES AN EYEBALL STARING BACK AT HIM THROUGH PEEPHOLE.

METHEAD GRINCH (V.O. THROUGH DOOR)

I’m sorry about the rent, Doc.

DOCTOR (Backing away from door calculatedly)

Open the door, Grinch.

DOCTOR STANDS BACK AND LISTENS AS CHAIN LOCKS ARE UNDONE, TO OPEN DOOR.

DOOR OPENS TO REVEAL METHEAD GRINCH, Disheveled, Male, 30’s, Slim, ADDICT.

METHEAD GRINCH (FEARFUL)

I’ll have it for you next…

DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY GRABS FIRM HOLD OF METHEAD GRINCH’S THROAT AS CNN FAKE NEWS HEADLINES SCREAM FROM 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV.

WITH GREAT FORCE AND NO HESITATION DOCTOR DRAGS METHEAD GRINCH, CHOKING AND STRUGGLING, THROUGH FILTHY APARTMENT, TO OPEN WINDOW.

DOCTOR DANGLES METHEAD GRINCH OUT WINDOW LONG ENOUGH TO WATCH HIM SUFFER AND PLEAD FOR HIS LIFE THROUGH THE SOUL IN HIS EYES, BEFORE TOSSING HIS LANKY BODY TO THE GROUND, LIKE A PILE OF TRASH.

EXT: GHETTO – TENEMENT BUILDING – RAIN SLICKED STREETS – DUSK

METHEAD GRINCH IS IMPALED THROUGH OPEN RED FIRE HYDRANT AFTER HE FALLS OUT WINDOW TO SIDEWALK, FROM TOP FLOOR OF TENEMENT BUILDING.

BLOOD AND GUTS TURN SLOW RUNNING WATER, RED, IN GHASTLY SCENE.

BUM, hiding behind stripped abandoned vehicle, sees WHITE FACE HIDING BEHIND SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK staring down, FROM THE WINDOW, WHERE METHEAD GRINCH FELL.

INTERIOR: METHEAD GRINCH APARTMENT – DISHEVELED – HORDER – GRAFFITI ON WALLS

DOCTOR grabs remote control and switches channel to Yogi Bear reruns before STARING DOWN at the mangled body of METHEAD GRINCH, impaled on LEAKING fire hydrant, BESIDE SHOCKED BUM, standing in a sea of blood, LOOKING UP AT HIM.

EXTERIOR: GHETTO AREA OUTSIDE SECTION 8 TENEMENT BUILDING

BUM, STANDING BESIDE GRAFFITI COVERED MERCEDES BENZ, WATCHES DOCTOR, humming, AS HE DISAPPEARS INTO METHEAD GRINCH’S APARTMENT, past 60 inch, BIG SCREEN, rear-projection TV, screaming fake CNN headlines.

A PINK COMPUTER MEMORY STICK FALLS FROM METHEAD GRINCH’S BLEEDING HAND, ON TO SIDEWALK, BESIDE STREAM OF WATER, LEADING TO GUTTER, WHERE TWO DRAGONFLIES TAKE REFUGE, as BUM, in a panic, APPROACHES METHEAD GRINCH, WHO IS A BLOODY MESS spurting blood and guts everywhere.

METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling Blood)

He’s no Doctor. He’s a monster.

BUM STANDS ABOVE METHEAD GRINCH WEEPING as Porn magazine with images of A SLENDER RED HAIRED CNN REPORTER, HOLDING THE SEVERED HEAD, OF A UNITED STATES PRESIDENT, NEXT TO THE IMAGE OF A big breasted woman, on the cover flies, into his face.

GRAPHIC ART FLAPS PAST Image of GIGANTIC naked breasts with black duct tape over both HUGE, ERECT, PUFFY-nipples, RESTING ON MASSIVE AREOLAS, FILLS SCREEN IN 3-D.

METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling Blood)

He thinks he’s Jack the Ripper.

METHEAD GRINCH GRABS BUM’S ARM AS PORN MAGAZINE FALLS ONTO HIS IMPALED BODY UNFURLING CENTERFOLD OF BIG BREASTED LESBIANS TRIBBING.

BUM (Staring at centerfold)

Holy fuck!

METHEAD GRINCH (Groans)

He wants to be the most prolific serial killer in history.

BUM (looks nervously at corner of building)

Crackhead Jesus is coming!

METHEAD GRINCH (Blood spills from mouth)

Tell the outsider artists, to paint the story of how the Doctor kills his tenants and patients, under the FBI’s nose, to fuel the Clinton Machine.

BUM (Hysterical)

He kills his patients and tenants!

MENACING DOCTOR WALKS CALMLY AROUND CORNER WEARING HOODY OVER BLACK OVAL MORETA.

METHEAD GRINCH (Spitting blood)

You’ve got to warn people.

BUM (terrified)

Nobody believes me!

METHEAD GRINCH SEES DOCTOR APPROACHING.

METHEAD GRINCH (Gurgling blood)

He was at the Gotthard Tunnel Opening Ceremony, in Switzerland, so he has an alibi for the young girl’s death at the GVP but not the alleged murder-suicide of his tenants in Philly.

BUM (horrified)

I don’t want to go back to Philly with the Doctor!

METHEAD GRINCH (Spitting blood)

Run! He’s going to kill you.

DOCTOR (Calmly approaching scene)

Step away, from Methead Grinch you fucking crackhead!

BUM (Frozen in Fear)

Don’t hurt me!

DOCTOR (Stern)

I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to break you.

TERRIFIED BUM STANDS FROZEN IN PLACE, HOLDING METHEAD GRINCH’S HEAD UPRIGHT, AS DARK, GREEN, BLOOD SEEPS OUT OF HIS MOUTH.

METHEAD GRINCH (Dying)

Beware the Witches who call themselves lawyers and work for the Doctor.

METHEAD GRINCH GRABS BUM’S HAND WHILE POINTING TO PINK MEMORY CARD FLOWING IN STREAM, LEADING TO GUTTER, BESIDE APPROACHING DOCTOR, WHO IS BRANDISHING A LONG NEEDLE, FILLED WITH GREEN FLUID.

METHEAD GRINCH (Last breath)

Quick! (POINTING TO PINK MEMORY CARD) Grab that and give it to a real journalist, before the Doctor helps the FBI and Clinton Machine rewrite history.

BUM LUNGES, TOWARDS DOCTOR, AS PORN MAG FLIES UP INTO HIS FACE, REVEALING BIG BREASTED WOMEN AS PAGES TURN, SLAPPING DOCTOR hard, on face.

BUM TACKLES DOCTOR WHO TUMBLES ONTO METHEAD GRINCH.

DOCTOR ACCIDENTALLY INJECTS HIMSELF WITH GREEN FLUID, AS THE FRESH CORPSE OF METHEAD GRINCH SLIDES THRU FIRE HYDRANT TO GROUND, CUSHIONING HIS FALL.

TERRIFIED BUM RUNS OFF BEHIND CORNER OF TENEMENT BUILDING WITH PINK MEMORY CARD IN HIS BLOODY RIGHT HAND.

END FLASHBACK WITH THUNDER STRIKE SEGUE.

INT: ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL – FLICKERING LIGHT

MAN-IN-LAB-COAT wearing BLACK OVAL MORETA MASK, SITS BESIDE PINK MEMORY CARD, OUT OF HIS SIGHT, AS HE QUICKLY REFILLS BLACK MEDICAL BAG WITH GRUESOME SURGICAL EQUIPMENT.

MASKED MAN-IN-LAB-COAT STARES UP AT BUM, RAPIDLY MAKING HIS WAY DOWN THE STAIRS, AS HE STANDS, WHILE ROLLING UP THE BUILDING PLANS AND PUSHES HIS WAY DOWNSTAIRS PAST EVACUATING RESIDENTS.

BUM ATTEMPTS TO TACKLE MASKED MAN-IN-LAB-COAT, WHEN HE IS WITHIN REACH, BUT IS SLAMMED AGAINST THE WALL, BY HYSTERICAL EVACUATING RESIDENTS, THROWING OPEN THE EMERGENCY EXIT DOOR.

BUM SLIDES DOWN ON TOP OF PINK MEMORY CARD, POKING HIS REAR AND GROANS.

BUM REACHES TO PULL OUT PINK MEMORY CARD, STARES AT IT IN DISBELIEF BEFORE CLENCHING HIS FIST.

BUM RISES AND SHOUTS AT PANICKED RESIDENTS PUSHING PAST HIM, WHILE POINTING AT THE MASKED MAN-IN-LAB-COAT WHO IS WITHIN REACH.

BUM

Stop him! He’s a serial killer!

BUM is IMMEDIATELY pushed back down, by MUSCULAR YOUNG MAN, carrying FLAT SCREEN TV.

MUSCULAR YOUNG MAN

Move it, Old Man! Get out of my way!

BUM HITS FLOOR HARD, GROANS IN PAIN AS HE WATCHES MASKED MAN-IN-LAB-COAT COVER HIS HEAD WITH HOODY AS HE ESCAPES DOWNSTAIRS FOLLOWED BY LAUGHING MUSCULAR YOUNG MAN.

BUM FINDS NEEDLE FILLED WITH GREEN LIQUID IN CORNER AND REACHES FOR IT.

BUM (despondent)

And where the slain are, (INJECTING HIMSELF IN RIGHT ARM) – there is he.

EXTERIOR: DAWN – WATERFRONT– HI-RISE – HURRICANE

TWO DRAGONFLIES hover near glass monolith that casts shadow over docked YACHTS, BOATS TUGGING AT BERTHS in turbulent BAY, AS A WHITE DOVE TAKES REFUGE IN LARGE, EMPTY, OPEN BIRDCAGE ON PENTHOUSE BALCONY BESIDE RADIO. FLOOR OF CAGE IS LINED WITH NEWSPAPERS. NEW YORK TIMES HEADLINE READS, “FAA SHUTS DOWN AIRLINE – PLANES UNSAFE TO FLY” ABOVE PHOTO OF DOCTOR, 50’s, DISTINGUISHED, WELL TAILORED.

WASHINGTON POST HEADLINE READS: “DOCTOR EDWARD CHARLES – CEO WIKI AIRLINES & Director of Spinal Surgery AT SISTERS OF MERCY HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON, D.C.” BALTIMORE SUN HEADLINE, BESIDE THAT STORY, READS, “CRIME OF PASSION: MURDER-SUICIDE IN DEATH OF BALTIMORE HOSPITAL RESEARCH ASSISTANT”.

NAUGHTY NATALIA (V.O. RADIO DJ)

WCHJ weather forecast – something wicked this way comes – National Hurricane Center has rated this one – a Category Five – tornado warnings are in effect – you heard right – tornado warnings are in effect for Dade and Broward County – so look out, it’s going to be a bad one folks – stay safe people – flow.

(MUSIC PLAYS throughout film with NAUGHTY NATALIA BREAKING IN NOW AND THEN AS DJ REPORTING NEWS AND WEATHER.)

Dark THUNDER & LIGHTNING hurricane clouds roll in from ocean AS GROWING WAVES TOSS BOATS LOOSE FROM ANCHORS IN EERIE CALM BEFORE STORM.

INT: LIGHTS FLICKERING – GRANDVIEW PALACE – PENTHOUSE HALLWAY

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR, PANICKED, POUNDS on PENTHOUSE 111, DOOR WHILE rambling incessantly in Spanish.

MOTHER YELLS AS SHE CHASES crying CHILD carrying a BRIGHT RED PLASTIC FUNNEL SPILLING MULTICOLORED MARBLES DOWN OPEN ELEVATOR SHAFT, while CHILD runs after scrambling BLACK BUNNY, PAST MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR, BANGING ON DOOR.

CHILD (screaming)

Come back here, Copernicus! – Come back!

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (Heavy Accent)

Salgan se de aqui! Get out! Get out! Save yourselves! Este building – no es – safe!

IRATE, FLAMBOYANT, MULTI-ETHNIC RESIDENT, sloppy, rich, BISEXUAL, BIGOT, across hall opens door WEARING WOMANS SHEER SILK ROBE AND AN OFFENSIVELY ELABORATE HEADPIECE.

IRATE RESIDENT (GERMAN ACCENT)

What? – English, Paco, this is America!

INT: POUNDING STORM OUTSIDE  – PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 – OVERHEAD SHOT

ARTIST (V.O.)

Nothing is by chance.

ARTIST, handsome, fit, 30’s, FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW, alone, lying FACE-UP and naked, HUGE penis, in a restless slumber with arms outstretched as if on a cross, TANGLED IN A TWISTED WHITE SATIN SHEET, beside open BOTTLES OF WHISKEY, WINE, BONG, used PAINT CANS, weathered BRUSHES, rich EASELS, fine PAINTINGS, MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS AND LATEST SOUND EQUIPMENT. IN BED BESIDE HIM lies A FINE SILK LADIES SCARF IMPALED to MATTRESS by A SPINAL SCREW.

P.O.V. – LAPROSCOPIC CAMERA -ANIMATION

PAINTBRUSH DIVES INTO ARTIST’S closed, eyes and races thru his body, to the DEPTHS of his soul and out of his MOUTH in a DREAM state.

ARTIST (Sweat drenched)

– Jesus! –

P.O.V. – SPLITSCREEN – CLOSE UP

INTERIOR: FLICKERING LIGHT – ENCLOSED EMERGENCY EXIT STAIRWELL – THUNDER

BUM EXPERIENCING RUSH OF NIRVANA shouts concurrently WHILE BOLTING UPRIGHT in stairwell as lights flicker and panicked residents flee.

BUM (stands)

– Jesus is coming! – Crackhead Jesus is coming! – And he doesn’t pull out!

INT: POUNDING STORM OUTSIDE – PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 BEDROOM

ARTIST (mumbles in dream)

Crackhead Jesus is coming! And – he doesn’t pull out? (SCREAMS)

– FREEZE FRAME OPEN MOUTH SCREAM TO SPRAY PAINT FILM TITLE, “CRACKHEAD JESUS”, with WHITE GRAFFITI in BACK of MOUTH.

– FREEZE FRAME OPEN MOUTH SCREAM TO SPRAY PAINT FILM TITLE, “CRACKHEAD JESUS”, with WHITE GRAFFITI in BACK of MOUTH.

{PAINTBRUSH SCRIPTS, “REDEMPTION: THE STORY OF THE”, before, “CRACKHEAD” and “TRIALS”, after, “JESUS”} BRUSHSTROKE creates ARTIST SCREAMING himself AWAKE within a FREEZE-FRAMED PICTURE that HANGS in a FINE FRAMED PAINTING, of himself playing Chess with DOCTOR, at Modern Art Music Movement GALLERY, AS STORM ROLLS IN FROM DISTANCE, OVER ATLANTIC OCEAN AT SUNRISE.

CHAPTER XII 

[Nuts]

“Oh!” Large Marge shouted, through her enormous O-face, while quivering orgasmically.“ I like that you gave the main character a huge penis.” She said, before shoving Polish sausage in her mouth while talking. “It made me hungry.”

“I didn’t, your nephew did.” I quickly responded, while watching in awe, as she swallowed a huge link, and pulled it out again, licking the tip and letting her drool linger, over a plate full of designer meat in a food orgy.

“He knew I’d like that.” Large Marge chuckled food particles out of her mouth, while rambling on with questions about the Crackhead Jesus movie script, doctored by the Hebrew Hammer, on a Sabbath. “How about the flying porn mag?”

“That was my idea, he wanted a hooker, giving her pimp a blowjob, in the alley, while Methead Grinch suffered a more gruesome death scene.”

“Than being impaled through a fire hydrant?” She asked sarcastically.

“That was also my idea and trust me, it was less macabre than the Hebrew Hammer’s.”

“Forgive my sweet Nephew, he tends to go overboard sometimes.” She said, before chomping off the tip of sausage she’d been deep throating in front of me. “I don’t even wanna know how he killed off Methead Grinch. At least, not while I’m eating. Maybe later, while you’re eating me.”

She winked, as I did a double take, then appeared to have an orgasm in front of me.

“Excuse me?” I asked, unsure of what I had heard or witnessed.

“He’s an Orthodox Jew.” She continued talking and eating, without skipping a beat “You know how the frum can be.”

“Your script made me hungry for salty nuts.” Large Marge said before lunging at me, in the living room of her house, near Anthrax Island, with a coy wink and instructions. “Pass the peanuts will you, Picasso?”

I dutifully reached for the crystal bowl, full of mixed nuts, on the antique table in front of me and passed it to Large Marge, who sat across, with her thick, legs, spread wide-open, on a big red couch, that she enveloped physically.

“So, tell me about this ticket you got from the holy-roller-schvatza-cop on your way over here, Kid.” Large Marge said, while sucking salty nuts from her fingers provocatively.

“I’m sitting in South Hampton traffic, surrounded by banners advertising the film festival and suddenly I hear police sirens behind me and see flashing lights in my rearview mirror.”

FLASHBACK

EXTERIOR: SUNNY – DAY – SOUTHAMPTON FILM FESTIVAL – LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK

CROWDS HUSTLE PAST CELEBRITIES AND PAPARAZZI ON WAY TO CINEMA AND BARS, AS ARTIST SITS IN TRAFFIC, AT RED LIGHT, BEHIND LONG LINE OF CARS, ON SINGLE-LANE ROAD.

BLACK POLICE OFFICER, wearing LARGE GOLD CROSS AROUND NECK, IN MIRROR GLASSES, BALD, FIT, 30’S, SITS PIOUSLY IN PATROL CAR, BEHIND ARTIST RESTING HIS LARGE, “JESUS IS MY SAVIOR” TATTOO, BRANDED INTO HIS BUFF ARM, ALONG THE ROLLED DOWN WINDOW AREA OF SHINY POLICE VEHICLE.

ARTIST LISTENS TO MUSIC IN HIS LEXUS CONVERTIBLE FILLED WITH ARTWORK AND EASELS SPRAWLING OUT THE BACK LIKE PEACOCK FEATHERS, OBLIVIOUS TO COP BEHIND HIM.

POLICE OFFICER NOTICES ‘CRACKHEAD JESUS IS COMING’ BUMPER STICKER ON REAR WINDOW OF LEXUS CONVERTIBLE AND GRABS GOLD CROSS WHILE SLOWLY BUILDING RAGE INSIDE HIS BEING.

POLICE OFFICER SITS IN CAR FUMING, WITH EYES FULL OF HATRED, TOWARDS THE ARTIST IN FRONT OF HIM.

POLICE OFFICER KISSES GOLD CROSS BEFORE TURNING ON SIRENS AND FLASHING LIGHTS, TO GET THE ARTIST’S ATTENTION.

POLICE OFFICER STEPS OUT OF PATROL CAR AND WALKS TOWARDS OBLIVIOUS ARTIST, CAUGHT UP IN SURROUNDING EXCITEMENT AS LINE OF CARS SIT IDLE BEHIND POLICE VEHICLE.

POLICE OFFICER (Angry)

Crackhead Jesus is coming.

ARTIST (Confused)

Is there a problem officer?

POLICE OFFICER (Angry)

Crackhead Jesus is coming.

ARTIST (Pauses)

Oh! The bumper sticker. Sir, it’s a movie. I’m here to promote it at the South Hampton Film Festival.

POLICE OFFICER (Angry)

Jesus was not a crack-head.

ARTIST (Nervous Laughter)

No, Sir, it’s got nothing to do with Jesus Christ.

POLICE OFFICER (Angry)

So, he’s Mexican. Jesús?

ARTIST (Nervous Laughter)

No, he’s white.

POLICE OFFICER (FURIOUS)

You people, think you’re so entitled. Let me see your license and registration.

“The racist-black-cop,  gave you a ticket, for unlawful sticker displayed on a window?” Large Marge asked, in disbelief through bites of goat cheese. “Religion police, like in Muslim countries.”

“Yeah, I’ve driven that car, on tour with the Modern Art Music Movement, across America and never got a ticket for that bumper sticker, anywhere. Not in Texas, not in the heart of the Bible belt, only in the liberal state of New York, by a black cop who hates white people and insisted that Jesus was African, therefore black, not white.” I answered, while doing a Google search on my cell phone for bumper sticker citations.

“Religious police, like the vice squads in Saudi Arabia and other Islamic states.” Large Marge said, in disgust. “What is this, George Orwell’s, 1984, in New York?”

“Here, I looked it up.” I said, while showing her the Google search results display screen on my Android. “I’m the only person in New York State history, to ever get a citation for an unlawful sticker.”

“Crackhead Jesus is coming, no doubt!” Large Marge laughed, while reaching for sour cream and appearing to have another orgasm. “Racist-born-again-hypocrites. Well, they’re your people, Kid. You went to Catholic School.”

“For eight years, through grade school.” I answered.

“Your formative age.” Large Marge said, while stroking her thigh. “I learned everything I need to know in kindergarten.”

“Me too.” I said, looking away.

“You were baptized Christian and your schmeckle is circumcised, I presume.” Large Marge said coyly, taking sadistic pleasure in watching me blush.  “Would you like to show me your schmeckle under the table, Kid?”

I hid my face behind a long celery stalk, while taking a sip of Bloody Mary and making pretend I didn’t hear her forward question.

“I’ve noticed, the Catholic guilt in you, makes you sexually repressed, Child.” Large Marge said, without hiding the pleasure she took in making me squirm.

“Is that where you got the inspiration for the character of Sister Mary?” Large Marge pried into my past, while having orgasmic spasms.

My mind raced to a flashback, portrayed in a scripted scene, within a leather manuscript binder, lying on the armrest of the big red couch, wherein Large Marge writhed in pleasure, watching me reminisce, while she pressed designer meat down her agile throat.

EXTERIOR: MORNING – GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE – ROMAN CATHOLIC SCHOOL IN NEW YORK CITY BARRIO – CHILDREN LINE UP TO ENTER BUILDING IN ORDERLY FASHION.

NUNS, PRIESTS AND CHILDREN ARE EVERYWHERE IN PLAYGROUND OUTSIDE BACK ENTRANCE NEAR PARKING LOT FULL OF SCHOOL BUSSES.

INTERIOR: EMPTY SHADOWY HALLWAYS ARE SUDDENLY FILLED WITH THE SOUND OF CHILDREN MARCHING INTO CLASSROOMS.

SISTER MARY, 20’s, fit, attractive wearing nuns habit, walks into Girls BATHROOM, at inner city Catholic School, before hallways fill with children but after MULTICULTURAL, naughty, girls put itching powder on toilet paper and run out laughing, BEFORE SISTER MARY ENTERS.

SISTER MARY checks to make sure bathroom is empty before entering middle stall. Seconds after she latches door and flushes toilet, a flash of bright light, shoots up, through ceiling and Sister Mary’s legs and feet can no longer be seen under stall in empty bathroom.

A set of shocked eyeballs peer from behind the perforated Janitor Room door.

CHAPTER XIII

[The BP Miracle]

“You’re the Maverick Artist?” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver asked, in disbelief, as I sat beside him at a lonely counter, inside an empty diner, staring at his parked taxi, as night fell over the Redneck Riviera, near the Alabama/Florida state line.

“Yes and you drove Elvis Presley over 700 miles in 12 hours without stopping to get gas or use the bathroom?” I asked, sarcastically, as the Waitress walked away from me in disgust.

“You’re Crackhead Jesus!” The Taxi Driver shouted, while I gestured frantically, with my hands, for him to keep his voice down.

“No. I’m the guy, who invented, the fictional character.” I answered quietly, as if revealing a secret. “Crackhead Jesus, is metaphor. He’s like the boogeyman.”

“He said I would meet you.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver blurted. “Elvis told me, to tell you, that he was on a mission from God, too. He said he was here to expose the BP Miracle that fake news was hiding. He told me to tell you to paint about it, in modern-art-gonzo-journalism, at your next Modern Art Music Movement gig.”

“How does Elvis know me?”

“Just like the others, the King said, your art saved his life. He wanted me to thank you for him.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“He said you would doubt, me.” The Taxi Driver smiled as he slowly sipped his coffee after shaking his head in wonder. “Anyway, he seemed pretty sure about meeting up with you, one day, soon; in New Orleans, at an Asian Massage parlor.”

“Where is he?” I asked, while turning my body completely on the rotating bar stool. “Why didn’t he come in with you?”

“I dropped him off, at the Flora-Bama Lounge. He tipped me an extra three-hundred-bucks, to come meet you here, buy your meal and thank you for everything.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver stood up gently.  “I’ve kept my promise. I’ll leave now, if you wish, but, hey, can you sign my dollar before I go?”

I looked down at the bill the Taxi Driver placed in front of me. “Where’d you get this?” I asked when noticing the letters, ‘WWCHJD’, before a question mark, alongside a portrait of George Washington.

“Elvis gave me a stack full of CHJ bills.”

“What did you call them?”

“CHJ bills. The lost souls you’ve saved, all paid me in bills that say ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’.” The Taxi Driver said, as he handed me a Sharpie to autograph his Federal Reserve Note. “Beside the Eye of Providence, if you don’t mind, please. I’m keeping this one.”

CHAPTER XIV

[More Action, Less Metaphor]

CONTINUOS – (ANIMATION/REAL LIFE)

Stroke of PAINTBRUSH on screen creates ARCHITECTURAL DRAWINGS OF HIGH RISE BUILDING, THE GRAND VIEW PALACE, held by TALL, LANKY, MAN IN LABCOAT, FACE OBSCURED, as he descends DANK STAIRWELL, RUSHING TO MAKE his way out of the FRAGILE STRUCTURE.

X-Ray Camera EXPOSES OCCUPANTS LIVING INSIDE THIN FRAME separating the fish- bowl-like, HI-RISE APARTMENT DWELLINGS, revealing INTIMATE elements of RESIDENTS lives & dramas, contained within the rotting guts, of WEAK metal framework, wrapped in a skin of SEE-THRU, FLOOR TO CEILING windows, THAT CREATE A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY for OVER 1,500 TRUSTING SOULS.

INT: GRANDVIEW PALACE – 36TH FLOOR – TORNADO APPROACHING

BRUNETTE MUSE, (SOUTH AFRICAN, MULLATO, 30’s, FIT) POUNDS NAIL INTO WALL, TO HANG ARTIST’S NUDE PAINTING OF HER ESSENCE, ACCIDENTALLY CREATING A HOLE THROUGH THIN CHINESE DRYWALL SEPARATING UNITS.

TINY HOLE REVEALS, BLONDE MUSE (EXOTIC LATINA, 20’s, VOLUPTUOUS) STARING BACK AT HER FROM BEDROOM THROUGH PEEPHOLE NEXT TO COLORFUL NUDE PORTRAIT OF BLONDE MUSE, MANIFESTED BY THE ARTIST, AS NOTED IN SLOW REVEAL OF UNIQUE SIGNATURE ON BOTH NUDE PAINTINGS WHILE CAMERA PANS 360 DEGREES THROUGH BOTH UNITS AS STORM ROLLS IN FROM DISTANCE.

ARTIST(V.O.)

Nothing is by chance.

INT: PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 – Bedroom – POUNDING STORM OUTSIDE

ARTIST lies on a filthy mattress, IN MIDDLE OF ROOM, surrounded but untouched by a swaying sea of ROSE-HAIRED TARANTULAS. Sweat drenched, white satin sheets envelope his naked drowning body like a cocoon as the EBBING & FLOWING TARANTULAS encroach upon his being.

ARTIST (V.O.)

I am, that I am. The debt of a man’s soul, is paid, by his children.

A solitary BLACK WIDOW gently makes its way across ARTIST’s face AS HE WRESTLES WITH NIGHTMARES.

ARTIST (V.O.)

Evil. Darkness, lurking beneath the surface, conspires to penetrate the fragile fiber of my being. Sucking out my soul currency, through a poisoned, red, funnel, into the wide-open arms of temptation.

TWO DRANGONFLIES hover above ARTIST entering his head through his ears, collide & melt into TWO GIANT SCORPIONS LOCKING CLAWS in FIERCE battle within the craters of his mind. Their stingers STRIKE each other with hammering strength that mimics the LOUD BANGING on ARTIST’S front door.

Wind howls, THROUGH OPENING ON BALCONY and building shakes as THUNDER and LIGHTNING RUMBLE OUTSIDE, under OMINOUS BLACK CLOUDS, while BLACK BUNNY SNIFFS UNDER FRONT DOOR OF ARTIST’S APARTMENT as MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR POUNDS ON DOORS WARNING RESIDENTS OF IMPENDING DOOM.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (O.S.)

Get out! Dios Mio, perdoname, Jesus! It’s not safe!

ARTIST startles awake from all the noise.

INT. HALLWAY – DAY

ARTIST opens FRONT door while zippering his jeans. CHILD runs in after BLACK BUNNY racing for balcony – SHE STOPS, at window, AGASP, facing WATERSPOUT, SWIRLING with multi-colored OBJECTS, SWELLING outside in BAY, TOSSING YACHTS and BOATS like toys.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR

Senor Artista! The sprinklers don’t work! El Dueno – El Doctor – he lied to you!

ARTIST (Groggy)

What?

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR

La muerte! Gente va murir! – The windows (GESTURES WITH FINGER SLICING ACROSS THROAT IN A FRANTIC GAME OF CHARADES.) – no son de code!

ARTIST (Adrenaline Rush)

I assured everyone the building was safe!

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (Crying)

Perdoname, Dios! I’m so sorry! – El Doctor said he’d deport me if I didn’t do it! He threatened my wife – con un – un – conyo! Como se dice?

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR struggles to find words in English until he sees CHILD step over BLOODY SPINAL SCREW in entryway as she RUNS OUT SCREAMING past ARTIST clutching BLACK BUNNY, STUFFED INSIDE HER Large RED FUNNEL bleeding slightly from its’ FRONT PAW.

MOTHER GRABS CHILD’S ARM SECONDS BEFORE CHILD GOES AFTER BLACK BUNNY, COPERNICUS, WHO FALLS INTO DARK PIT OF OPEN ELEVATOR SHAFT.

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (Terrified)

Tornillo! (POINTING AT LONG SPINAL SCREW ON FLOOR INSIDE ARTIST APARTMENT) Mira, el screw! Por Dios, El Doctor, diablo, esta aqui! Vamonos pronto!

ARTIST  (Scratching his ear)

The Doctor threatened your wife, with a screw?

INT: ARTIST’S PENTHOUSE – HUGE WATER SPOUT RUMBLES OUTSIDE

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR eyes widen in terror. ARTIST turns, sees SWIRLING clouds approaching his balcony. He looks at his life’s work, A DIARY OF THE WORLD ON CANVAS, covering walls, floors and easels, threatened with DESTRUCTION by MOTHER NATURE.

ARTIST (PANIC)

Go! Go! Evacuate the building!

ARTIST grabs shirt, shoes, backpack, cell phone and runs after MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR towards exit stairwell.

INT: HALLWAY – GRAND VIEW PALACE – LIGHTS FLICKER

ARTIST pulls fire alarm but it RIPS out of the wall and into his hands. MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR eyes widen as reality hits both men.

ARTIST (Commanding)

Hit the first apartment on each piso, quickly, Hermano! Tell them to warn their vecinos on the way out! You warn residents on even pisos, I’ll warn the odd floors. Entiende?

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR (Meek)

Si, Senor. I should have told you, antes. God help us!

MAINTENANCE SUPERVISOR hugs ARTIST and starts crying, DEFEATED. ARTIST HOLDS him STEADY.

ARTIST (Firm)

Calmate, Hermano! No es tiempo for tears.

ARTIST pulls himself away and runs into the stairwell hitting speed-dial on his cell phone.

ARTIST races downstairs emerging from stairwell on 18TH FLOOR leaving message after hearing, voice mail recording.

ARTIST’S SISTER (V.O. answering machine)

Not in, leave a message.

ARTIST (Urgent)

Call me, Sis! I’m coming down to get you. We’ve got to get out of here, now! The building’s not safe.

ARTIST runs down the hallway BANGING on doors driving out STARTLED NEIGHBORS and THEIR BLIND PARTNERS COOKING BREAKFAST IN STOCKINGS AND SILK UNDERGARMENTS.

ARTIST

Get out! – Get out!  The building’s not safe!

ARTIST POUNDS on a door at the end of the hall while FUMBLING THROUGH KEYS and pressing speed dial. HE gets HIS SISTER’S voicemail recording, AGAIN.

ARTIST

Mary! Mary! Open the door! I can’t find your keys! Answer the door!

INT. MARY’S APARTMENT – BATHROOM

SHADOW LURKS IN SCREEN OF MUTED WALL MOUNTED TELEVISION SCREAMING CNN BREAKING NEWS HEADLINES ABOVE SINK COUNTER, FILLED WITH EXPENSIVE PERFUMES AND MAKE UP, AS ARTIST’S SISTER, MARY, 20’s, fit, RELAXES in bubble bath, candles lit, sliced cucumbers around eyes on MUD MASKED FACE, iPod on, oblivious to ARTIST BANGING ON DOOR and her RINGING/VIBRATING cell phone on SHAKING GLASS table, near floor to ceiling LIVING ROOM windows, FIGHTING BACK STRONG CATEGORY 5 HURRICANE WINDS.

INT. NORTH BAY VILLAGE – GRANDVIEW PALACE – HALLWAY – FLICKERING LIGHTS

A FEMALE NEIGHBOR (60’s, overweight, Latin) evacuating with KIDS, calls to ARTIST as he REDIALS CELL PHONE AND BANGS FISTS WHILE KICKING DOOR OF HIS SISTER’S APARTMENT.

FEMALE NEIGHBOR (Panicked)

Senor Artista – Se fue. She no here. Lo vi anoche – Dijo ella que iba pasar con su amiga. – Ay! – Dios Mio – Senor! Noticias dice que es un tornado!

ARTIST (RELIEVED BUT DOUBTFUL)

Seguro? You sure she’s not here, Senora?

FEMALE NEIGHBOR (shakes head up and down)

Si, Senor. I saw her leave last night.

ARTIST

Gracias, Senora! Call the police! Llama la Policia! We have to evacuate the building now!

FEMALE NEIGHBOR (ANXIOUS)

Dios Mio!

ARTIST (URGENT)

Con urgencia!

FEMALE NEIGHBOR (DEFENSIVE)

I call already, Senor Artista. They say, they no come. They no come in Hurricane, they come after! Are we safe here?

METAL TENSION ROD snaps up from exploding floor under RUG in front of FEMALE NEIGHBOR who runs from shrapnel.

FEMALE NEIGHBOR (SCREAMING)

Dios Mio!

FEMALE NEIGHBOR runs toward exit stairwell with frightened CHILDREN, OPENING DOOR TO REVEAL-

INT: DIM LIT STAIRWELL – 18th FLOOR

BRUNETTE MUSE, DESCENDS carrying BUILDING PLANS & ROLLS OF CANVAS strapped on to a RED BACKPACK. She comes FACE TO FACE with FEMALE NEIGHBOR as SHE TURNS to RUN DOWN DIM LIT STAIRWELL followed by BLONDE MUSE, carrying BUILDING PLANS & ROLLS OF CANVAS strapped on to a WHITE BACKPACK.

INT: GRANDVIEW PALACE – HALLWAY – FLICKERING LIGHTS

ARTIST hears HIS SISTER’S VOICEMAIL, re-dials while running down hallway to OPPOSITE Stairwell WARNING RESIDENTS as walls SHIVER & floor VIBRATES.

INT. – STAIRWELL – DESCENDING FLOOR NUMBERS

(CONTINUOS)

ARTIST, in GROWING ACTION of WARNING residents throughout his DESCENT, into Hallways and out of Stairwells.

INT. CREEPY LOCAL TV NEWS ROOM – STORM ROLLS IN OUTSIDE

A SMART-ASS INTERN (face unseen) responds SNIDELY on phone.

(CONTINUOS)

SMART ASS INTERN (relaxed)

WCHJ – newsroom – how can I help you?

ARTIST (V.O. in howling Wind)

Hello! Hello!

SMART ASS INTERN (looking outside)

Something wicked this way comes, Mister. Sounds like you’re in a wind tunnel. I can’t hear you.

ARTIST (V.O.)

I’m at the Grandview Palace. It’s not safe here. You’ve got to warn people, quick!

SMART ASS INTERN (Sexting)

What? I can’t hear you. What’s your name?

INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE LOBBY – HURRICANE WINDS – DAY

ARTIST EXITS STAIRWELL reaches GRAND PIANO in middle of LOBBY amid BUILDING CHAOS and SWINGING CHANDELIERS AS AUTOMATIC DOORS OPEN AND CLOSE.

ARTIST (LOOKS UP AT SWINGING CHANDELIER)

No! Wait, you know me. I’m the modern-art-gonzo-journalist. We’ve spoken before. I need you to get the word out, please! We must evacuate this building!

INT: – DAY SEVERE WEATHER SHIFT RATTLES WCHJ BREAKING NEWS ROOM –

SMART ASS INTERN (angry)

I’ve told you – (CLOSE UP OF SMART ASS INTERN’s LIPS) call us back when you see burning bodies flying out of the building.

INT: GRAND VIEW PALACE LOBBY – HURRICANE WINDS – DAY

ARTIST WATCHES, Dumbfounded, AS TREES TUMBLE AND CATS FLY PAST ROLLING CARS IN PARKING LOT.

SMART ASS INTERN HANGS UP PHONE, LAUGHING WICKEDLY, AS A SMALL DOG FLIES PAST THE WINDOW OF WCHJ BROADCASTING NETWORK.

ANOTHER SMALL DOG FLIES PAST SCREEN, IN 3-D, AS ARTIST EXITS BUILDING.

EXT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – SEVERE HURRICANE WINDS – DARK DAY

A PREGNANT, TRANSGENDER FAIRY FLIES BY AS THE ARTIST EXITS BUILDING FULL OF ADRENALINE.

ARTIST STOPS beside super cool Jeep, parked at MARINA, ABSORBING THE BEAUTIFUL CHAOS of CATEGORY 5 HURRICANE THAT SURROUNDS HIM, AS GLASS MONOLITH SWAYS, to and fro, slightly, towards THE BAY, WHILE TRAPPED RESIDENTS SCREAM FROM INSIDE.

INT: MARY’S BATHROOM – GRAND VIEW PALACE – SWAYING- OMINOUS CLOUDS SWIRL OUTSIDE FLOOR TO CEILING GLASS WINDOWS OF BATHROOM.

WATER SLOSHES BACK AND FORTH, IN TUB, AS FROGS FALL FROM SKY AND GLASS MONOLITH SWAYS. MARY SCREAMS IN DARKNESS, AS CATS HOWL IN THE WIND OUTSIDE, AS THEY FLY PAST A HUGE BIRD, CAREENING PAST HER WINDOW, IN A FEATHER STORM OF PANIC.

EXT: GRAND VIEW PALACE – HURRICANE WINDS – DAY

PAINTBRUSH CREATES STICK FIGURES, falling out of an animated SHATTERED BUILDING, into the BAY, FANCY POOL AREA and WET streets, surrounding the BATTERED HI-RISE.

EXT. / INT. JEEP – MOVING OUT OF CARTOON PAINTING into REAL LIFE ACTION SEQUENCE.

DISENFRANCHISED WOMAN WEARING BABUSHKA AND HOLDING A CAT FLIES PAST BIRD INTO SWIRLING TORNADO, that follows a super cool, fast-moving, BLACK, JEEP, driven by the fleeing ARTIST, DODGING ONCOMING OBSTACLES and pets, with both hands on the steering wheel.

FROG BENDS OVER BACKWARDS AS WIND HOWLS AND palm trees CRASH, IN FRONT OF ARTIST, while HE DEFTLY maneuvers JEEP, to dodge oncoming flying debris & OBSTACLES ON ROAD AS IT FLOODS.

(SPLIT-SCREEN)

TURTLE FLIES PAST ARTIST, IN JEEP, on BLUETOOTH yelling at, DOCTOR ON HIS CELL PHONE (50’s, TALL, FIT, Director of Spinal Surgery at MERCY HOSPITAL) FACE OBSCURED in SHADOW but clearly SEEN WEARING CLEAN SURGICAL GLOVES.

ARTIST (Incensed)

You lied to me, Doc! The building’s a death trap. It’s not safe and you knew it all along!

DOCTOR’S VOICE (V.O. phone filter)

Perseverance is the secret of all triumphs. Don’t worry, Kid, I won’t let anything happen to you.

ARTIST (Flabbergasted)

You created a towering inferno for fifteen-hundred souls! What happened to the Hippocratic Oath?

SPLIT-SCREEN

Shows CLOSE UP of DOCTOR’S wide GRIN beside SURGICAL GLOVE PUTTING PHONE ON SPEAKER AND RAISING NEW YORK TIMES NEWSPAPER ARTICLE TITLED, “MURDER RATES RISING SHARPLY IN U.S. CITIES”, AS ARTIST DEFTLY DODGES OBSTACLES IN ROAD AT HIGH SPEED through loads of chaos everywhere.

DOCTOR (Stern)

I want Victor Hugo, to write my life story. You are his reincarnation. You know it.

ARTIST (Frustrated)

You’re not God! You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake!

Doctor (Wicked)

Virtue has a veil, vice a mask.

ARTIST (Firm)

You’re supposed to care about people! I told everyone to trust you, Doc!

DOCTOR (CALM- V.O. Phone filter with muffled screams in background)

In this world, you can always count on cops being overworked, underpaid and lazy and you can always count on lawyers being greedy. Remember that, Kid.

INTERIOR: ART GALLERY -WINDOWS ARE ALL SHUTTERED AS HURRICANE RAGES OUTSIDE.

LOUD WIND SOUNDS LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN BARRELING THROUGH FLYING OBJECTS CRASHING INTO STEEL SHUTTERS SCREECHING WITHIN RELENTLESS, OMINOUS, KNOCKING.

DOCTOR WEARING SMALL BLACK OVAL MORETA (MASK), while on call WITH ARTIST, PERVERSELY RUBS HIS PALE, NAKED BODY, OVER GROTESQUE WORKS OF LARGE, UNFRAMED, STRETCHED CANVAS ART, HUNG UP ON STARK, WHITE WALLS, WITH THE SAME EXACT NAILS ONCE USED TO HANG JESUS CHRIST, TO HIS CROSS, IN 33 A.D.

DOCTOR (Aroused)

Not being heard is no reason for silence. I own the Judge.

ARTIST (Sarcastic)

You own the Judge.

DOCTOR (Emphatic)

I told you, not to worry, Kid, don’t doubt me. My lawyers at Which, Witch, Wicca & Wich will take care of everything. Just, keep painting, what I pay you to paint and keep your eyes wide shut.

EXTERIOR: CATEGORY 5 HURRICANE WINDS

ARTIST SKIDS to halt in front of Depression Era Tudor, in JEEP.

HOT DOG FLIES PAST ARTIST AS HE jumps OUT OF JEEP into chaos of HURRICANE.

INTERIOR: DIMLY LIT STAIRWAY LEADING TO BASEMENT OF DOCTOR’S ART GALLERY

DOCTOR NAKED, SNIFFS DIRTY WHITE GYM SOCKS, BEFORE ELEGANTLY MAKING HIS WAY DOWN STAIRS, WEARING BLACK OVAL MORETTA MASK, STRIDING into a room full of masterpieces WITH CONFIDENCE, AS DANCE MUSIC PLAYS IN BACKGROUND.

DOCTOR COVERS ANTIQUE FURNITURE PIECES WITH LARGE PLASTIC TARPS WHILE DANCING TO MUSIC.

MUFFLED SOUND OF NAKED MAN, BOUND AND GAGGED, WITH HOOD OVER HIS HEAD, SCREAMING, CAN BE HEARD, WHILE STRUGGLING TO FREE HIMSELF FROM BEING TIED TO CHAIR, WITH SERIES OF INTRICATE ROPE KNOTS, AS DOCTOR APPROACHES HIS VICTIM WITH A LARGE BLANK CANVAS THAT HE GENTLY SETS BESIDE A BLARING BOOMBOX RADIO ON FLOOR, SURROUNDED BY MELTED CANDLES IN THE SHAPE OF A PENTAGRAM.

DOCTOR picks up hammer, from assortment of pain inflicting tools, SURGICAL EQUIPMENT AND SEXUAL GADGETS INCLUDING INCREDIBLY HUGE GLASS BLOWN BUTT PLUG SCULPTURES on TABLES surrounded by lit candles, voodoo dolls and occult objects, before raising volume on radio to drown out the sound of CATEGORY 5 HURRICANE WINDS THAT RUMBLE outside the CELLAR DOOR.

DOCTOR (Twirling Hammer)

Never talk about murder, when there is more than one person in the room because the wicked envy and hate; it is their way of admiring.

DOCTOR GRABS HOLD OF HOOD AND TILTS VICTIM’S HEAD BACK AS HE DESPERATELY STRUGGLES IN TEETERING WOODEN CHAIR, FOR HIS LIFE.

DOCTOR (Poetic)

Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars.

DOCTOR LOOKS OVER AT SILENT TV SCREEN IN CORNER, BLARING FAKE NEWS HEADLINES ON CNN AS SATELLITE IMAGES OF A CATEGORY FIVE HURRICANE, TWIRLS IN MULTICOLORS OVER THE FOLLOWING BREAKING NEWS SCROLL:

“CRACKHEAD JESUS IS COMING AND HE DOESN’T PULL OUT. ANIMALS ESCAPE FROM MIAMI ZOO. CHIMPS AND EXOTIC BIRDS SEEN TERRORIZING NEIGHBORHOODS IN PANIC OF CATASTROPHIC DISASTER. RESIDENTS WARNED TO STAY INSIDE.”

DOCTOR PAINTS AND DANCES WHILE TORTURING VICTIM WITHOUT MERCY.

Doctor (Painting Victims Veins)

Change your opinions, keep to your principles; change your leaves, keep intact your roots.

DOCTOR USES FEATHER TO TICKLE BOUND AND GAGGED VICTIM IN CHAIR.

Doctor (Sadistic)

When a woman is talking to you, listen to what she says with her eyes.

DOCTOR USES ELECTRIC PRONGS ON VICTIMS PIERCED NIPPLES AND PENIS as MUSIC BLARES OVER MUFFLED SCREAMS.

Doctor (Poetic)

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.

DOCTOR REMOVES BLACK OVAL MORETTA MASK AND TOSSES IT ON FLOOR, COVERED IN PLASTIC SHEETS, AS HE SMILES WIDE, BEFORE PAUSING, to THINK OUT LOUD, WHILE TWIRLING HAMMER AND ADMIRING WORKS OF ART THAT SURROUND HIM.

DOCTOR (Serious)

What would Jesus Do?

As HOODED MAN begs for his life through FRANTIC fits of struggle and muffled cries for help, DOCTOR MERCILESSLY SWINGS HAMMER DOWN WITH GREAT FORCE, striking a lethal blow into the victim’s head.

BLOOD SPLATTERS ONTO BLANK CANVAS CREATING WORK OF ART, AS DOCTOR IS HEARD, OFF CAMERA,  SMASHING HAMMER INTO VICTIMS BODY AND CRUSHING BONES WHILE TUBES CARRY BLOOD FROM VICTIMS BODY INTO EMPTY PAINT CANS SET UP NEAR HIS LIMP, LIFELESS BODY.

EXT: MIAMI BEACH – OLD TUDOR – HURRICANE – DAY

ARTIST rings doorbell & BANGS on door. RED HAIRED MUSE (40’s, fit) opens door IN SHADOWS, looking depleted and confused.

RED HAIRED MUSE (Anxiously Relieved)

What are you doing here?  I thought we broke up.

ARTIST (Sincere)

I never stopped loving you.

RED HAIRED MUSE

Well, I’m glad you’re here. The trolls are back and the FBI’s been following me!

ESCAPED ZOO MONKEY SWINGS ON LILTING TREE BRANCHES, shouting, “Crackhead Jesus is coming!”, AS STOP SIGN, WHIZZES PAST ARTIST, impaling ITSELF into LARGE FALLING OAK TREE, amidst FLURRY OF flying debris, HOWLING WINDS AND BEAUTIFUL CHAOS.

RED HAIRED MUSE

Come in! You’re going to get us both killed!

RED HAIRED MUSE yanks ARTIST inside by the collar and throws him against the wall as DOOR SLAMS shut. Framed photo of them in embrace crashes down, SMASHING GLASS ON FLOOR, AS THEY KISS, BEFORE RUNNING FOR SHELTER IN BATHROOM TUB as ANDERSON COOPER DESCRIBES SCENE ON CNN.

SERIES OF SHOTS:

– Hurricane waves crumble a pier.

– Trailers on construction sites TUMBLE.

– Dog in thong and sunglasses, clings to blue couch, while hurtling past shattered structures.

– Traffic lights plunge to the ground.

– Windows on the Grandview Palace obliterate as hundreds of birds and fish, in tornado funnel, smash glass.

– ARTIST’S SISTER  cowers in tub as GLASS SHATTERS ALL AROUND HER AND LIGHTS GO OUT.

– Shadow of MAN IN LAB-COAT seen exiting Apartment as MARY SCREAMS in Darkness.

– Rooftops of houses are BLOWN off, AS FLAT SCREEN T.V., SHOWING ANDERSON COOPER, ROLLING HIS EYES AT HURRICANE FOOTAGE ON CNN, FALLS TO GROUND, LANDING ON A VINTAGE YOGI BEAR DOLL AND LIES ON FLOOR IN SPARKS AND FLAMES, BEFORE BEING PUMMELED UNDER DEBRIS.

END SERIES OF SHOTS – MATCH CUT:

INT: MIAMI – OLD TUDOR – BATHROOM – DARK – HURRICANE

ARTIST and RED HAIRED MUSE hug each other AND kiss in bathtub, as wind HOWLS like a freight train RUMBLING the ENTIRE HOUSE.

RED HAIRED MUSE SCREAMS under ARTIST in TUB as a small part of the ceiling COLLAPSES over THEM – WALL MOUNTED FLAT SCREEN TV, SHOWCASING HYSTERICAL CNN PROPAGANDIST, CRASHES TO GROUND!

FADE TO BLACK

CHAPTER XV

[The Budget]

“Ninety-eight percent of rapists and serial-killers walk among us.” Large Marge said, as she put down a large steak-knife and put on a colorful oven mitt, to lift a tray full of chocolate-chip cookies, out of the hot stove and onto a set of fancy plates, sitting on an island, full of treats.

“The system is a lie.” I said, in frustration, as Large Marge approached me, with fresh baked cookies, that smelled divine. “You realize that, once you’ve been thrown into the litigation vortex.”

“Or visited the DMV. Listen Kid, it’s not hard to find something better, when you have nothing to lose and in this case, you have everything to lose.” Large Marge said, while licking a spicy hot pepper in front of me, in the tiny kitchen of her home, a short distance from the infamous, Building 257, at Fort Terry on Plum Island. “They do evil human experiments on that Island. Maybe your serial-killer doctor friend, has something to do with the Montauk Monster. You think?”

“I’m wasting time on the grid, as a politician. I’m just a patsy for corrupt globalists, neo-cons and serial killers. I need to be as far off the grid, as possible.” I said, my mind elsewhere, before asking, “What did you say about the Montauk Monster?”

“The Naval Academy brainwashed you, Kid.” Large Marge laughed, while preparing more food to put in the warm oven. “Check your phone. I bet you don’t get any reception.”

“You’re right.” I said checking bars on my phone for signal strength. “My cell phone is dead. No reception.”

“I told you, we’re on the edge of Long Island, across from Connecticut. This is Tainstville, Kid. We’re way off the grid here. You’ll realize soon enough, how this place messes with your head.”

“A week without cell-phone reception, living next to the Island of Dr. Moreau, this should be interesting.” I said, while shutting off my phone and putting it back in my pocket.

“Yeah, welcome to the home of the Montauk Monster. A hideous, half-human creature, with hooves and a long sharp beak that scientists, who’ve seen it, can’t even explain what it is, exactly.”

“So what is it?” I asked, while passing her a joint.

“I just told you, stoner, nobody knows.” Large Marge said, while laughing through orgasmic convulsions, before reaching for the herb. “It’s a mutated human body, with elongated fingers and five holes, drilled into the head, that washed up on Montauk Beach.”

“Is that true, or did you here it on CNN?” I asked, seriously, while Anderson Cooper rolled his eyes, on the humongous flat-screen television, that loomed behind Large Marge, in the entertainment area, of her ranch style home, packed with curiosities and stuff, that sailed the circumference of hoarding .

“Locals call it the Mutant Man. It’s a product of secret, unethical neurosurgery and remains an open and unsolved case but you won’t hear that in the fake news, because it’s one-hundred percent real.”

“That’s why the world needs modern-art-gonzo-journalism, to expose unheralded news, like this.” I proclaimed, in a cloud of hot-air. “Modern-art-gonzo-journalism will be the bridge between real and fake news.”

“Because somewhere, in allegations, lies the truth.” Large Marge said, while smelling her fresh baked cookies.

“The mote and the beam.” I noted, while taking in the sweet aroma that filled my circumference.

“You capture abstract history in words, memes, music and art.”

“It’s the Modern Art Music Movement, preserving abstract history for future generations to judge for themselves what really happened.”

“Here, taste this.” Large Marge said, while passing me a cookie. “Some folks think the Montauk Monster, is a cross bred animal, manufactured, in a top-secret biocontainment lab, against the Geneva convention, that escaped from Plum Island.”

“That’s it, from this moment on, I will be a full-time artist, communicating truth to power, like Goya, during the Inquisition and Dark Ages.” I said, munching on a tasty marijuana cookie, while Large marge watched me like a stalker. “I’d rather be part of the New Renaissance, painting stories about the man-made, Montauk Monster, judge shopping and corrupt corporate bank bailouts, so that future generations, can contemplate, the actions of their ancestors while living in its consequences.”

“The modern-day Picasso.” Large Marge said, laughing herself into an orgasmic fit. “You’re an outsider artist with survival instinct and Naval Academy training in the art of business, propaganda and creativity.”

“At least, I’ll be happy documenting the beautiful chaos in color.” I said, watching Large Marge spasm against the kitchen counter. “I can reach a wider audience as an artist, since most people are illiterate and a picture, in any language, is worth a thousand words.”

“You’ll be a starving artist. Nobody’s going to buy your work. Stay in politics, move up and change the system from the inside.”

“I can’t be in politics anymore, it’s too dirty. It’s gone from being about people, to being about corporations and I’m done with it. Most politicians are all talk, no action. I don’t want to be that person.”

“Hunter S. Thompson, Salvador Dali and Victor Hugo, rolled into one, during the modern civil war.”  Large Marge said, after inhaling a joint she pulled, from between her buxom breasts and lit on the stove. “Les Miserable for the Lied to Generation during the new American revolution. I love it! Blaze this, Mr. Renaissance Man.”

“The Hoyker of Notre Dame.” I said, with a heavy Jewish accent, while placing the marijuana cigarette she passed, between my fingers. “So you’ll finance the film?”

“I didn’t say that, Kid.” Large Marge said, before guffawing into a climax and asking, “You speak Yiddish?”

“Just the insults, your Nephew taught me.” I said, exhaling a cloud of smoke while passing the cannabis.

“He’s a real potty-mouth, that fuck! Listen, most politician’s, are a bunch of crooks and creeps, like that child molester, what’s his name? The guy, who was third in line for the U.S. Presidency?” Large Marge asked, stuttering to find the answer. “Speaker of the House under President George W. Bush.”

“Dennis Hastert.” I replied, while sipping a stacked Bloody Mary.

“Did you know, some folks think Ted Cruz, is The Zodiac Killer?” Large Marge asked, before pausing to inhale her medicinal marijuana.

I shrugged my shoulders to show her I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“What’s the name of Ted Cruz’s favorite serial killer?” Large Marge asked, before passing the pot.

“I don’t know but the Doctor thinks he’s Jack the Ripper, reincarnated.” I answered, truthfully, while nodding in appreciation, for the sinsemilla she passed, flirtatiously.

“The same alleged serial-killer-spinal-surgeon, that offered you a bribe, to run for Mayor of Hitsville.” Large Marge said, while laughing uncontrollably and spurting food particles from her runny nose, into a pot of boiling vegetable soup, that she had been stirring, in preparation for our casual dinner.

Realizing, that I had noticed, she added salt to the soup and said, while staring at me, without shame; “It needed some more seasoning anyway and salt kills all germs.”

“The Doctor knows, I know, he killed Methead Grinch.” I said, without hiding my disgust. “He confessed the murder to me, in private, over a game of chess, in his penthouse.”

“So we’ll stir the serial-killer Doctor, into the script.” She said, without breaking eye contact as she agitated the pot. “No problem.”

“Can we do that?” I asked, while watching her mucus coalesce into the soup.

“If I’m producing the movie, you are damn right we can! Besides, I can’t afford the first fifteen pages of your script.” Large Marge said, while sweating into the soup, as she breathed over it. “Even if we use CGI, the special effects would bring our budget over five-hundred-thousand dollars to start. Each page is between ten-thousand and one-hundred-thousand dollars in production cost, Kid. I was looking to spend, at most five grand on your project. So, we’ll just make it a grindhouse horror flick.”

“Oh, no!” I said, in disgust.

“Oh, yes! I’m not producing fucking, Star Wars, here, Kid. The serial-killer Doctor is what interests me.” Large Marge said, while sniffing and drooling all over the soup. “Let’s make a serial-killer movie. Blood is cheap and serial-killers are trending now.”

“It’s just a sub-plot.” I snapped.

“Well, Kid, now, it’s the plot.” She said, bluntly. “Operation Paper Clip recruited Nazi scientists under Heinrich Luitpold Himmler to work on Plum Island. What if, Josef Mengele, recruited the serial-killer spinal-surgeon to conduct, above top-secret, experiments, on unsuspecting, U.S. Naval Academy Midshipman, at the world-famous leadership laboratory, as part of some deep-state plot, to create a lethal force of home-grown terrorists, disguised as lawyers, judges and FBI agents, who purposefully fail to stand up to toxic leadership, under the guise of cowardice, to overthrow democracy and kill the constitution, within a broken justice system?”

“That sounds preposterous! You’re ruining my movie.”

“Okay, then how about this, a corporate coven of evil witches and lawyers use false prophets and corrupt judges to distort religious principles and Constitutional law, to assist a billionaire, serial-killer-spinal-surgeon-CEO, with his diabolical plot, to become the most prolific murderer in history.”

“That might work.” I said, after giving it some thought. “But it sounds a lot like the truth.”

“So, tell me more about the serial-killer-spinal-surgeon, Kid.” Large Marge said, laughing orgasmically. “While I make spaghetti, in case you don’t like my homemade soup.”

CHAPTER XVI

[The Serial Killer]

“The Doctors favorite place in the world is the creepy, Mutter Museum, in Philadelphia.” I said, to the Hebrew Hammer, as he sat on the toilet swiping right on Tinder with his knees and elbows, before exiting the filthy, clogged bathroom, at The Welcome Inn, while adjusting his Adidas sweat-pants, around his hairy, pot-belly, within the tight confines of our sour smelling room, hours before the sold-out, All-Star MAMM Jam, in Fort Myers, Florida.

“Hey thanks for setting me up with the toilet paper, Kid.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he wiped his hands on the loud Hawaiian shirt he wore. “I totally forgot my Kosher toilet paper and dealing without that shit is a pain in the ass, no joke.”

“This place is a nightmare. I can’t believe the shower is clogged too.”

“What did the front desk say?”

“They have no more rooms.” I answered, while fanning in front of my nose frantically. “My God, did you kill Crackhead Jesus in there, Dude. It stinks like murder.”

“So when are they coming to fix it?”

“Tomorrow morning, they’re sending a plumber.” I answered, while running to open the front door to let some fresh air into the stank, cloudy room. “Early.”

“That sucks. I wouldn’t go in there for a while, if I were you.” The Hebrew Hammer suggested, as he watched me gag in the parking lot, under a broken light-post.

“I wasn’t planning on that, you, nasty fuck.”

“Hey, you’ll appreciate this, according to a jurist I know, who is friends with a Columbia University Law professor, who is friends with FBI Director, James Comey, the head of the United States primary law enforcement agency, in action, is telling citizens of the world, that in the U.S., it is now legal for anyone to leak classified information, as long as the secrets are distributed through a friend, who is white, Jewish and has a law degree from Columbia U.” The Hebrew Hammer told me, while inspecting my storyboard on canvas titled, ‘Capicua 3:1:3 – The Long Arm of The Law’.

“The FBI, what a joke.” I laughed. “When I told the FBI about the serial-killer-spinal surgeon, the investigator asked, if I had any video footage of him murdering people. Like, I’m supposed to follow the deviant Doctor around with a camera, capturing his international killing spree on film, as if it were a demented reality show.”

“Or snuff film. I’m telling you, Kid, serial-killers and their vapid lawyers are running the world.”

“And fake news is making up stories and hiding truths, that threatens to undermine democracy and destroy billions of lives.” I said. “That’s why I’m a modern-art-gonzo-journalist and you’re going to help me get this movie made, against all odds.”

“Counterbalance, in a world where no one knows what to believe. I’ll do what I can.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before asking. “Ever heard of Donald Blankenship?”

“He’s the coal exec, jailed after 29 Miners died in an explosion.”

“He proved to the world that committing mine safety crimes was a good gamble for a wealthy serial-killer. Blankenship was sentenced to one year in jail for twenty-nine murders.”

“That’s more time than anyone at General Motors got for killing a bunch of people.” I noted, sadly.

“Corporate serial-killers, hiding behind a shield of soulless lawyers and judges, in a broken legal system, where rule of law, favors an elite circle of influence, that murder for sport, with impunity.”

As police sirens raced past us, on the boulevard, in hot pursuit, a black cat jumped out from behind a filthy dumpster in the parking lot, knocking over trash that created a loud crash, which left me noticeably startled in front of the Hebrew Hammer, who walked out of the cramped room, holding a fresh joint saying, “Light this, Kid. It’ll calm your nerves.”

Watching the black cat strut past us, with his mangy tail in the air, I did, as instructed, inhaling the herb in silence, while leaning against the lamp post, before exhaling a cloud of smoke, into dark shadows, saying, “The Doctor takes pleasure in other people’s pain. That’s why he became a spinal surgeon.”

“Naturally, it gives him a thrill. He’s a masochist.”

“People with back pain are some of the most miserable and desperate people on earth.” I said, while handing The Hebrew Hammer a smoke, while he raced past my sketch book.

“He brags about being their candy man, when we play chess.” I added.

“What else does this, alleged, serial-killer spinal-surgeon say, when he’s alone in a room with you?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while exhaling a flavorful cloud of smoke and flipping through my sketches.

“He says, his victims are in so much agony, when he takes away their pain killers, they beg him to perform whatever radical surgery he can dream up, on the very fiber of their being.”

“I’ve heard of this guy.” The Hebrew Hammer recollected, as he contemplated my duct tape graffiti series. “In People Magazine.”

INTERIOR: STERILE OPERATING ROOM THEATER – BRIGHT LIGHTS –

EDM HOUSE MUSIC PLAYS FROM SPEAKERS, AS BLOOD TRAVELS THROUGH TUBES, WHILE CABLES HOLD PATIENT, SUSPENDED, LIKE BREAD IN A TOASTER, WITH SPINAL CORD FULLY EXPOSED, AS DOCTOR SPLICES THROUGH CYLINDRICAL BUNDLE OF NERVE FIBERS WITH SURGICAL TOOLS.

ARTIST (V.O.)

On an operating table, in a room full of witnesses, too scared to speak out against him, the serial-killer-spinal-surgeon experiments on his victims, like Josef Mengele, until he’s ready to kill without liability.

DOCTOR PERFORMS RADICAL SPINAL SURGERY, ON SUSPENDED PATIENT, IN FRONT OF AMAZED AUDIENCE IN BLEACHERS, WITH ASSISTANCE FROM SEVERAL SWEATING SURGEONS AND NURSES, all dressed in GREEN sanitized hospital scrubs, COVERED IN BLOOD.

Doctor (Eye Twitch)

Initiative is doing the right thing without being told.

DOCTOR PICKS UP SPINAL SCREW AND EXAMINES IT INSIDE HOLLOW CAVITY OF PATIENT TO SEE IF IT FITS PROPERLY INTO LOWER LUMBAR.

Doctor

What we are is God’s gift to man; What we become is man’s gift to God.

DOCTOR PASSES SPINAL SCREW TO ASSISTANT AND PICKS UP MEDICAL DRILL.

THE SMELL OF BURNING CARTILAGE AND SOUND OF BACK BONES CRACKING UNDER A SURGICAL DRILL AT THE HANDS OF THE ABLE DOCTOR, FILLS THE OPERATING ROOM WITH UNEASE AND DREAD.

DOCTOR DISCARDS SPINE FRAGMENTS INTO A STERILE STEEL PLATE, HELD BY POISED NURSE.

NURSE STARES AT SURGEON LOOKING THROUGH HOLLOW GUTS OF SUSPENDED PATIENT, INTO DOCTOR’S SOULLESS EYES, AS GROUNDBREAKING SURGERY COMES TO A SUCCESFUL CONCLUSION.

DOCTOR (Sinister)

Never tempt the fates.

SURGEON (Ecstatic)

You’ve performed another miracle, Doctor. Your invention will save countless lives.

DOCTOR (With Hubris)

Yes, but not this one.

MADNESS AND EVIL in the CALCULATED flick of the DOCTOR’S WRIST, AN ARTERY IN THE PATIENT HE JUST SAVED, IS FATALLY NICKED, BY HIS CUSTOM MADE, SHARP SURGICAL BLADE AND THE PATIENT IS SENTENCED TO DEATH, IN FRONT OF A SHOCKED ROOM, FULL OF WITNESSES.

DOCTOR’S LEFT EYE TWITCHES AS HE Stares DEEP into Surgeon’s Eyes, Through HOLLOW OF Dying Patient, WHOSE SEVERED ARTERY IS SHOOTING A FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD EVERYWHERE, LIKE FLAMES FROM THE TWIN TOWERS ON 9/11/2001.

DOCTOR (Malicious)

Ooops.

NURSES SCRAMBLE TO STOP BLOOD FROM SPURTING ALL OVER THE ROOM BUT EVERYONE REALIZES THE FUTILITY OF TRYING TO SAVE PATIENT, AFTER DOCTOR’S SEEMINGLY INNOCENT AND INEXPLICABLE, AMATEUR, SURGICAL ERROR, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING SUCH A GROUNDBREAKING TRIUMPH.

DOCTOR (To Nurse)

Write this one up for insurance, as a successful surgical procedure and death by therapeutic complication.

DOCTOR CALMLY WALKS OUT OF OPERATING ROOM, LEAVING BEHIND A MURDER VICTIM, DANGLING FROM THE CEILING, IN A ROOM FULL OF STUNNED PARTICIPANTS AND CONFUSED MED-SCHOOL STUDENT WITNESSES.

Meanwhile, back at The Welcome Inn, sixteen hours before show time with the Modern Art Music Movement All Stars, I found myself explaining another gruesome story-board-on-canvas, for the seemingly uninterested, Hebrew Hammer.

“Exactly, the serial-killer is above the law, like Bill and Hillary Clinton, because he’s connected with deep state guys, who cover up for his actions.”

“With the excuse of cowardice and fear, the way Comey covered up for Hillary” The Hebrew Hammer jumped in.

“Because he feared getting his name on the Clinton Death list.”

“What are the Doctor’s tics?”  The Hebrew Hammer asked.

“What?”

“What are the Doctor’s nervous tics?” He asked, again,  impatiently, noticing my hesitation. “Does he smoke?”

“Yes, cigars and his left eye twitches, when he gets excited.”

“What else? Serial-killers usually have several tics. Does he clear his throat a lot?”

“Yes and he hums when he thinks no one is around.”

“What does he hum?”

“I don’t know. It’s eerie. He repeats it over and over until he realizes someone is there.”

“Oh, I’m sure he knows you’re listening.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while taking notes.

“Maybe, because if you’ve ever heard him humming, you’ll catch the sound in your nightmares.” I said, as goose-bumps raced up and down my spine, while recalling the Doctor’s sinister song, in my subconscious.

EXTERIOR: DAY – GRAND VIEW PALACE – HIGH RISE BUILDING- UNDER SKY FILLED WITH CHEM TRAILS – CAMERA PANS INTO –

INTERIOR: DOCTOR’S ELEGANT PENTHOUSE APARTMENT – ADORNED WITH FINE ART, SCULPTURES, STATUES AND AFRICAN MASKS.

DOCTOR HUMS AS HE AND ARTIST SIT AT CLASSIC CONTEMPORARY TABLE PLAYING CHESS ON EXOTIC ONE-OF-A-KIND, ANTIQUE SNAKE WOOD BOARD WITH GROTESQUE HAND CARVED CHESS PIECES.

ARTIST (Holding tip of Queen)

So, Doc, I have this tenant who thinks he’s Jesus Christ.

DOCTOR HUMS WHILE WAITING FOR ARTIST TO MAKE HIS NEXT MOVE ON THE BOARD.

ARTIST (Takes hand off Queen)

He says Jesus don’t pay rent.

DOCTOR LISTENS WHILE HUMMING AND STARING DOWN AT THE FIGURES CLASHING ON THE BOARD.

ARTIST (Frustrated)

He’s got himself a lawyer whose throwing tenant’s rights in my face and threatening to sue me under Florida’s Tenant Protection Act.

DOCTOR (Left eye twitches)

Make your move.

ARTIST MOVES HIS QUEEN ON BOARD TO PUT DOCTOR’S KING IN CHECK.

ARTIST (Distracted)

What should I do, Doc?

DOCTOR contemplates question and his next move on board. He grabs black knight.

DOCTOR (Bloodthirsty)

Kill him.

DOCTOR moves black knight on CHESS BOARD to capture white Queen as thunder rolls over background and sky turns grim.

ARTIST stares AWKWARDLY AT DOCTOR, SENSING A SINISTER SIDE TO THE SAWBONES.

ARTIST (Dumbfounded)

Seriously, Doc.

DOCTOR (Disquieting)

I am being serious. (STARING DEEP INTO ARTIST EYES.) Checkmate. You’re dead, Kid.

ARTIST REALIZES DOCTOR’S LAST MOVE ENDS GAME ABRUPTLY.

DOCTOR STARES AT ARTIST WITH EVIL GRIN, THAT SHINES IN GLOW OF LIGHTNING STRIKE THAT FILLS CANDLE LIT ROOM SURROUNDED BY FLOOR TO CEILING GLASS WINDOWS, THAT SHOWCASE OMINOUS BLACK CLOUDS, SLOWLY FLOATING TOWARDS MONOLITHIC STRUCTURE.

Meanwhile, back at the Welcome Inn, eight hours before my noon rehearsal, with the Modern Art Music Movement All Stars, at the concert venue, in downtown Fort Myers, I was having no luck, convincing the Hebrew Hammer that ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’ was about a serial killer spinal surgeon, thriving within a corrupt legal system, in the Age of Fake News.

“Serial killers, are everywhere.  I’m more interested in your time at Annapolis, inside the world-famous leadership laboratory.” The Hebrew Hammer side-tracked my explanation, as we argued, past the witching hour, on Sabbath, about reality and fiction, without care for budgets or politically correct constraints.

“The world’s on fire, can’t you see?” I said, pointing at the Beast’s claws in the painting. “Things are getting dangerous, fast.”

“U.S President’s and the illuminati are groomed for power posts there.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, before asking. “John McCain graduated from The Naval Academy, didn’t he?”

“Yes. World leaders are built from scratch there but…”

“You said something, about toxic leadership, in charge of training young Officers, at the Academy.” The Hebrew Hammer interrupted, while passing me a lit joint. “Sociopaths, training future world leaders, molding them into monsters, that’s the story I want to hear. Tell me more about that.”

“That’s another story.” I said in frustration. “Let’s focus on the story of modern-art-gonzo-journalism and stopping the serial-killer spinal-surgeon.” 

The Hebrew Hammer plowed through my objections, making it clear to me, that he was not giving up his train of thought. “You had a black Gunnery Sergeant, built like me, only dark as a tar pit at midnight, right?”

“Darker and he was a Master Gunnery Sergeant.” I answered honestly, giving in, to his intense line of questioning.

“How the fuck did a smart-ass spic like you, get into such an elite institution?”

“I earned it, by studying my ass off, Jew.”

“I’m not saying you’re a stupid spic, I understand you went to a specialized high school, full of slants and geeks but I bet you were the dumbest, of all the smart kids there, am I right?”

“Just about.” I said, while inhaling the herbal essence of the joint being passed to me by the Hebrew Hammer. “I learned, quick, the difference between North Korean, South Korean, Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese.”

“You don’t just get into the U.S. Naval Academy because you’re smart. Some luminary must have nominated you for the coveted position. Why?” The Hebrew Hammer worked the story of Crackhead Jesus out of me, as I paused, to take a long toke, of the spliff.

“Because they knew I had the gift of vision and wanted to use me as a weapon.” I said, while pacing the small room in fits of lingering memories. “I could see past the truth and hear wavelengths and frequencies in color.”

My mind raced into the dark, depths, hidden behind caution, within the chambers of my fiber of being, as The Hebrew Hammer dove deep into my past, in an attempt to make my unique experience, palatable, in soundbites and action, for a global audience.

“You got a big dick for a tiny white boy!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant hollered, at me, as I stood naked, in front of him, waiting in line behind other Plebes, to take a quick shower in the crowded Men’s room, on the third floor, of Bancroft Hall at the U.S. Naval Academy.

“Sir, yes, Sir!” I hollered, while standing at attention with eyes locked and arms at my side.

“And a fucking huge set of balls, Mr. Bon Jovi, you long-haired, heavy-metal, freak!” He added, while lifting my testicles with a smooth wooden baton. “You must be a nigger from the waist down. Now, we just got to figure out, if you is, a steer, or a mother-fucking queer.”

“Sir, I’m not queer, Sir!” I hollered, while standing at attention with eyes locked and arms at my side.

Nobody laughed, within the steam-filled room, occupied by Naval Academy Midshipman Officers, scrubbing their naked young bodies, face to face, for thirty seconds, two at a time, inside each cramped shower stall, at Mother B’s.

“Get over there by the Admiral!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant screamed, as he slid his nightstick away from my balls and ran it across my neck, under my long, brown, flowing, hair. “I want to see the two of you, mother-fucking Mandinka dicks, shower together, like ebony and ivory.”

I made my way past giant, bald, naked marines, over to a line of warriors, headed by, the Admiral, a towering black prodigy, who was to be the saving grace of the USNA’s college basketball program. As if on cue, the redneck Platoon Leader, I suspected of being gay, swiftly rushed over to the action, with chewing tobacco in his mouth and wide-open eyes exclaiming, “I want to see that too!”

CHAPTER XVII

[In The Navy]

“I love this! Very homo-erotic. Two, naked men, with big dicks, one’s black, one’s white, standing face to face, in the shower.” Large Marge said, while stirring the soup and licking her chops. “No wait, the basketball player is super-tall, and the other guy is Tom Cruise-short, so they must be standing face, to dick. Brilliant! I love it even more, now but that will get us a PG-13 rating for sure.”

“At least.” I added, standing beside her, in the food-filled kitchen.

“That reminds me, Kid, pass me the eggplant.” She said, with a coquettish wink and a perverted grin. “It’s time to shove it all in the oven, Baby! Come to Mama, give it to me.”

“Your Nephew said you would appreciate a scene full of naked men showering together.” I groaned, while passing her the oiled and seasoned eggplant on an oven tray lined with bacon. “He said you weren’t Kosher either.”

“I raised the Hebrew Hammer, he better, know me.” Large Marge said with a hearty, orgasmic laugh, as she awkwardly placed things in the oven, while her massive breasts struggled to stay within her paisley, moo moo dress. “He’s a real mensch but a pain in the ass with that Kosher crap.”

“He said you’d want to be on set, holding slate, when we film the shower scene.”

“So, I’ll be there, wetting those dicks down with a hose.” Large Marge said, before wandering off, deep in thought, while licking marinade off her thick fingers, in front of me.  “Oooh!” She moaned, through orgasmic spasms. “It’s hot in here. Let’s get out of this kitchen and have a cocktail in the den. You can tell me all about those weird injections they gave you at The Academy and how it all fits into the story of Crackhead Jesus.”

“Sure.” I said, before opening the fridge and reaching for two beers.

“Fuck that, Kid, beer is not a cocktail.” Large Marge said as she rumbled towards me. “If you’re going into the fridge, reach for Bloody Mary ingredients and I’ll make us the best, you’ve ever tasted.”

“What’s in a Bloody Mary?”

“Step aside, let Bad Mama Jama show you how it’s done.” Large Marge pushed me aside and started handing me items from inside the fridge, as she spoke. “If exercising felt like an orgasm, more people would do it, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

“Have you heard of masturbation therapy?” She said, while handing me a large cucumber.

“No.” I answered, sheepishly.

“Here, let me show you.” Large Marge said, as she closed the fridge, grabbed my wrist and led me towards the living room brandishing a huge, green vegetable.

“Cosmic creative energy is exchanged when humans cum together, as one.” She said.

“You mean like at concerts and parades, right?”

“Well, yeah, that too but I’m talking c-u-m, as in, simultaneous orgasms.”

“Like at an orgy?”

“Well, yeah, that too but I’m talking about you and me, right now, on the couch, to relieve the stress, of working on this shitty script you brought me.”

“Are you serious, what about your husband?” I asked, while struggling to pull myself away from her, as she plopped herself down, into the big, red sofa. “My scripts not that bad.”

“It is. Besides, he knows, I want a piece of you, in me. We’ve talked about it.” She said, while wrestling me all over her lady lumps and bulges. “Look, I’ll be honest, in case you haven’t noticed I have PGAD, persistent genital arousal disorder. I climax every 30 seconds, sometimes up to a hundred times a day, for the past twelve years.”

“You are serious.” I said, aghast.

“What? Did you think you were all that, Kid?” Large Marge laughed through another spontaneous orgasm. “You’re sexy but you ain’t that sexy.”

I didn’t know what to say, as I watched Large Marge climax in front of me, again.

“We’ve fantasized about a threesome with you. We hoped your stay with us, would turn into something special.” Large Marge said, with warm, sincere eyes, as I stared back at her, with my mouth agape.

“Don’t look all angelic and perturbed, Kid, you came over here asking us to finance Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, so, what’d you expect?”

“Not this.” I said, stumbling for words. “But…”

“But what?” She said, tugging my shirt over my head, revealing my pierced nipple rings. “Mmmm-hmmm. That’s what I’m talking about, Kid, I knew you were a kinky little fuck.”

“No.” I said, freeing myself from her clutches.

“You play, you pay. That’s how it works in Hollywood.”  Large Marge insisted.

“I’m not playing.” I said, while adjusting my shirt and hair.

“Is it because I’m Jewish?” She said, pouting through globs of sweat pouring down her round face, that looked like massive tears.

“No.” I said, falling back into a purple ottoman beside the big red couch she writhed in.

“Good, because I couldn’t work on a film, with an anti-Semite. Those fucking Nazi’s already gave me Lyme disease, thanks to Operation Paper Clip. I don’t need any more bullshit, Kid, I was just testing you.” She said, while extending both hands. “Help me up, will you and I’ll finish making those bloody Mary’s for us, before we get back to editing your lousy script.”

CHAPTER XVIII

[Injections at The Academy]

Before daybreak, the sound of Neil Diamond’s, ‘Coming to America’, echoed through the yard at Bancroft Hall, after Jerry Goldsmith’s eerie, ‘Main Title from the Patton Movie Soundtrack’ played, before morning Reveille was trumpeted, by a Bugler, at the United States Naval Academy, to wake exhausted Midshipman Officers, recovering from brutal military indoctrination.

“Wake up, you filthy fucking maggots!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted while smashing a nightstick, inside of a metal garbage can, awakening any Plebes, still lost in slumber, as he stalked the empty halls of the largest dormitory in the world, Mother B, by the Bay, home to over four-thousand Mids.

“Hit the deck, motherfuckers!” The closeted-homosexual, redneck Platoon Leader shouted. “I want all of you lined up against the wall in your underwear and tees, now!”

Like an army of ants being pushed out of a mound, bleary eyed Midshipman jumped from their cots and lined up against the frigid bulkhead, outside of their rooms, dressed in government issued, white underwear and t-shirts.

“Don’t eyeball me, Fuckface!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant hollered, at the Plebe directly across from me, whose chin was tucked deeply into his neck, as his head stretched high and his eyes stared straight ahead.

“Keep your eyes in the boat, Faggot!” The Platoon Leader yelled, while looking down on me. “Brace yourself, Bon Jovi, you long-haired-pussy! I’ve seen more fucking chins in a Chinese fucking phone book, you, slimy spic!”

The closeted-redneck-Platoon Leader, overcome with the exuberance of a wicked preacher, spouting sermons, in tongues, dribbled shards of his fresh morning-dip, in gooey-globs and spit-shrapnel, of chewed-up-tobacco, entirely too close, to my face, as I stared deep, into the whites of the dark-pupils, that swallowed expressions of disgust and humility, inside the Master Gunnery Sergeant’s pitch-black-face, as spittle from the racist, Platoon Leader’s mouth, landed on the life-long enlisted man’s scarred cheek, in thuds, that sounded like bails of wet-hay, falling into piles of thick mud.

I struggled to tuck my chin, deeper into my neck, bracing, to appease the sadistic, lunatics I was being trained to emulate, in my mind, as leaders, while irony took place in front of my eyes. I imagined Three Muses, dancing to the most beautiful song ever played, to keep myself from laughing.

Such disrespect, would be certain death for a Plebe, in a room, full of confused ego and elevated hubris. In the name of government, democracy and free speech, I made my best attempt to brace myself into mimicking a flabby Shar Pei, with a straight-face, as I witnessed a young-white-racist-redneck-closeted-gay-Midshipman Officer, from Batesville, Ohio, humiliate a racist, Vietnam-era-Black-Panther Master Gunnery Sergeant from the Bronx, in front of my tearing eyes and quadruple chins.

“That’s no Shar Pei, you retard! That’s a weak brace, Motherfucker! Get down and give me fifty push-ups, you fucking-no-good-piece-of-shit!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant tried shouting his anger into my fiber of being, to no avail, for the Three Muses protected my constitution.

I felt the cold wind from his insides, pass through the deep wrinkles in my neck, while I stared into his brooding aura, through watery eyes, as he furiously wiped wads of dark-brown chewing tobacco, off of his greasy black-face, roaring verbal abuse at me, with penetrating hatred.

The Master Gunnery Sergeant watched, intensely, as I swiftly crashed to the ground and deftly began executing the first of fifty pushups he ordered, while counting off numbers, boldly, on the cold hard floor, at the United States Naval Academy, during the heart of Plebe Summer.

“All of you, worthless-pieces-of-shit, get down and give me fifty.” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted, within a hallway, lit like a hospital morgue. “Now!”

I did as I was ordered, in the beautiful chaos that surrounded me, while embracing its politically incorrect splendor, with every pushup, as the Master Gunnery Sergeant and Platoon Leader walked down the line, berating Plebes and killing egos, without mercy or abandon.

“Welcome to hell-week motherfuckers!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted with fury that left Plebe’s terrified. “The shit gets real, right the fuck now, you, fucking-sloppy-cunt-rags!”

Every Midshipman Officer Plebe, was on the floor, doing pushups, in line, against the bulkhead wall, as the halls echoed with the dense sound of screaming soldiers, counting off numbers, in manic repetition, while toxic-leadership barked-out, conflicting commands, through salty insults, filled with graphic, homo-erotic, sexual innuendo.

“Atten-hut!” The Platoon Leader shouted, as the Master Gunnery Sergeant entered the hall with the Doctor and his Female Assistant; a beautiful, long-legged, red-head, as far as I could tell, from my perspective, without getting caught by authority, for not keeping my keen eyes, on the boat.

“Alright you fucking, monkeys, line up in the middle of the hallway, single file. Now!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted, while raising his nightstick. “The good Doctor is coming by with his Assistant to inject you all with some shit that will make you stronger killing machines. So, stand there and fucking take it like men, not pussies, you stinking assholes!”

One by one, the government owned, human-guinea-pigs in front of me, were shot in the right arm, by the Doctor, after his gorgeous Assistant, passed him a military vaccine jet-gun, prepped to inject, a mysterious green substance, into the veins of unsuspecting patriots, who were never told, what experimental substances were being forced into their bodies.

I heard the giant Marine in front of me, cry out, as the air-gun penetrated his tender skin and firm muscle, with above-top-secret fluids, that burned blood and raised spirits.

I did not stumble or cry when my turn came to be pierced. The injection gave me a noticeable erection that brought a smile to the beautiful Assistant’s face and that of my closeted Platoon Leader, who was quickly silenced, by the Doctor, with a raised finger over his lips, before anyone in authority could shout, down, my erection, with verbal abuse and personal insults.

“Make a note of this specimen.” The Doctor told his Assistant before moving on to the next Plebe. “This one is special.”

My mind shattered reality as I witnessed brilliant colors and mesmerizing hues flash, within my soul. I broke past human constraints and entered a multi-universe of possibilities, compounded in fractals of light, as clarity rushed over me, in a burst of excruciating pain, that felt like a kidney stone was exiting, the frontal lobe of my brain.

Fortunately, the agony lasted long enough to seem like a prophetic dream, wherein I found myself driving along I-10 West, alone, in a Lexus convertible as the sun set over scenic landscapes.

I wandered upon a tattered, white, billboard, standing along the side of the empty interstate, when my cell phone rang. I noticed as I passed alongside the abandoned post at seventy-seven miles-per-hour, that a graffiti artist had spray painted the following words, with melting letters, in black and blue,  over the advertisement:

It is the characteristic of the most stringent censorships that they give credibility to the opinions they attack.

– VOLTAIRE

My cell phone rang a second time as I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed a big, bright, yellow, happy-face. It was swimming in a sea of blue and white savings. As I drove away it appeared to be drowning in the remains of a Wal-Mart Super Center ad. 

I answered my cell phone on the third ring, to a man, who identified himself as, Christian. I heard a cock crow, in the distance behind him.

“Are you calling me from a farm, Christian?” I asked, through the wind blowing around me as I sped towards destiny.

“No, I’m calling you from the News Press office.” Christian paused for a moment, as if to contemplate something. “Listen, we are in receipt of a legal cease and desist and defamatory legal threat, from the Law Firm of Witch, Which, Wicca & Wich. Regarding the serious, issues, you have been mentioning in your recent press releases, including the Crackhead Jesus Trials, serial-killer spinal-surgeon and the lack of safety checks on the U.S. Nuclear submarine USS Hampton.”

I heard a cock crow behind Christian again.

“It is News-Press policy to remove information from our site when in receipt of legal documents requesting such removal for possible slander, defamatory material, libel, and the like.”

“Are you telling me that credible news and information can disappear with the stroke of a pen?” I asked.

“I’m telling you, that we have deleted your news reports about dangerous nuclear submarines and the existence of a legal mafia, corrupting the United States justice system and protecting wealthy serial-killers.”

“But it’s true. You’re erasing history by censoring truth and publishing fake news.”

“You can choose to see it that way, Kid. We choose to see it as staying in business and covering our ass.”

“I sent you all the documentation and a list of witnesses. Didn’t you bother to follow up on the allegations?” I pleaded as I drove into the night.

“There’s so much to do around here, we don’t have time, money or resources to fight the Witches in a legal battle, or investigate your claims.”

“You let yourselves be bullied, by big banks and law firms, threatening to throw you into the litigation vortex?”

“Welcome to the new world order.” Christian answered abruptly.

“I thought you were investigative journalists, with guts and honor.”

“Well, Kid, you thought wrong.”

“Do you receive legal cease and desist and defamatory legal threats like this often?” I asked.

“The last time we got a strong-arm letter like this, it was from the folks at Disney and believe me, no one fucks with the Mouse’s lawyers.”

“But the Coloretti story is one of international security and the Crackhead Jesus Trials denote a weakness in the legal system that threatens U.S. democracy. Don’t you think that’s important news that should be made available to the public?”

“Listen, whatever you’ve uncovered with your artwork has caught the attention of some pretty powerful forces and those are entities we choose not to mess with, at this moment.” Christian answered. “I suggest, you keep your eyes wide shut.”

“You realize, that by omitting those allegations, you are not only, rewriting history, you are affecting, its impact?” I asked and got silence from Christian, so I persisted. “Hello?”

“I told you!” Christian whispered loudly, across the satellites. “The Associated Press is holding back on a report that sailors on the USS Hampton failed to do daily safety checks on the ships nuclear reactor for a month and then falsified records to cover up the omissions. A preliminary investigation, found that sailors, like the one you mentioned in your, Coloretti, painting, skipped the required analysis of the chemical and radiological properties of the submarines reactors, for over a month, even though, a daily check, is required.”

“That’s insane. I don’t understand why the media is holding back on this important information.”

“I don’t know how you’re getting this inside information, Mister Picasso, but your paintings, are foretelling future headlines.” Christian said, before adding, “You’re like Nostradamus, with a paint brush, in the Age of Fake News.”

“I’m just keeping a diary of the world on canvas.” I said matter of factly. “I have no other choice.”

“We all have choices. No one is forcing you to paint news, why don’t you paint pretty flowers and tranquil beach scenes, for South Hampton snowbirds in wealthy coastal markets?”

“I do that too.” I answered. “I observe what’s happening around me and paint the truth from another perspective, in reality.”

“We go by facts, not artistic license.”

“While you rape investigative journalism, in public.”

“You’re gonzo journalism, we’re news.” Christian declared.

“Fake news.” I noted.

“News, like government, is a business.”

“You’re full of shit, Christian. Your facts are hidden, behind smoke screens and a circus full of big tits and fear.”

“Newspapers aren’t run by editors, they’re run by attorneys and the powerful men who sign their checks to peddle influence through propaganda.” Christian said, firmly.

“Peddled by corrupt government and fueled by weak news outlets, like CNN.” I added.

“I thought you realized, the kind of dangerous game, you’re playing, Mr. Picasso. What did you expect, when you sent us all those incriminating press releases, filled with serious allegations about the alleged-serial-killer-spinal-surgeon and his connection to the Witches of Wall Street?” I heard a cock crow loudly, behind Christian, for the third time as he spoke.

“I keep hearing a cock crowing behind you.” I said, in frustration.

“Oh, that’s the editor’s cell phone. He has a cock crowing as his ring tone. It’s so annoying.” Christian paused, for an awkwardly long time, wherein I could hear him shuffling papers. “Look, I personally reviewed your press releases, alleging the enchanted law firm of Witches, are part of a legal mafia but any mention of the Witches, needs to be removed, from our news feed, to avoid direct legal action, from the complaint.”

“That totally changes the story.” I shouted into the phone. “That changes history with fake news.”

“I don’t make the rules. I just learn to play by them.” Christian said, with a sigh. “Unfortunately, it appears that the arts, are the last bastion of free speech, in a crumbling democracy. Modern-art-gonzo-journalists, like you, will now have to record history, for future generations, in artwork, music and movies, because investigative journalism, is dead in America. Good luck, Kid.”

Darkness encroached itself upon the last remnants of daylight when our call was disconnected. I drove past a man in a scraggly, white, beard, draped in a white cloth, standing by the side of a desolate road. The lone stranger was holding up a cardboard sign that read:

                                            “BREAD & CIRCUS/ Feed Me”.

In the rearview mirror, Crackhead Jesus appeared, as a chilling specter, standing on the side of the interstate, smiling back at me with a mouthful of rotting yellow teeth and baby red haired tarantulas crawling out of his pointy ears and nose. Evil incarnate collapsed into a pile of dust that sprinkled onto the dry earth. The poster board sign on a wooden stake penetrated the soil through the bleeding crabgrass. The sign now read:

“Red Room”.

Malevolence had turned into a vapor that air surfed its way up through the car’s tailpipe. Wickedness oozed out of the floorboard and crawled like a slimy vine through the back of the driver’s seat. I felt coldness on my back that sent a shiver up my spine when I heard the sound of the Doctor humming through the car speakers behind me.

An electric charge tapped a neuron in my brain that sent my mind tumbling, past a field of melting time clocks, into a world of Dark Matter. I was launched, violently, into a memory, of the first time, Crackhead Jesus came into my life, disguised, as a perverted childhood icon.

Before the housing market crashed, changing the course of Capitalism and Rule of Law, in history, for the United Slaves of America and future generations to reflect upon, Crackhead Jesus introduced himself to me, in front of the Florida beach house, he sought to rent.

“Call me, Mister Rogers.” Crackhead Jesus said, with a wide grin while shaking my hand, for an awkwardly long time, that felt like a middle-finger, up my spine. “I’m here to help you.”

CHAPTER XIX 

[Mister Rogers]

“Listen to me, Kid, if a picture is worth a thousand words, a symbol is worth a thousand pictures.” Mister Rogers said, looking down on me while laying his big arm over my right shoulder, inside my ocean front home near, Lighthouse Point. “Equality, can’t be legislated. Do you read the Bible?”

I nodded, “Yes. I’ve read it a couple of times.”

“Mathew Seven: Twelve.” Mister Rogers stared deep into my eyes and said, “So in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets. Capisce, Kid?”

His arm weighed heavy on my shoulders, as my instinct sounded alarms, about the man questioning my faith in his honor, while quoting the Bible.

“Material value is not the prime function of humans, art is.” Mister Rogers said staring out into the sunrise.

“I’m gonna be honest with you, Kid, I have a past. I could sit here and blow smoke up your ass but you seem pretty smart, so I’m gonna be straight with you.” Mister Rogers said, as his broad shoulders began to slouch. “I’m an honest man seeking redemption for past indiscretions. You’re handing me this authorization, to run a background and credit check on me, so, let me save you the effort.”

Taking his arm off my shoulder, Mister Rogers continued in earnest. “You will find a born-again man, who has filed for bankruptcy, because he was fucked, by a broken justice system, that favors corrupt one-percenters, no matter how sadistic and perverted, when it comes to rule of law. You will find a man, who has been divorced, twice, served time in jail, once, because I decided to let a Witch live.” His face grew grim as he paused to relive the experience. “Fate stuck me with a lousy attorney and a corrupt judge.”

I watched as a tear ran down the side of Mister Rogers cheek and glimmered in the light that shone on his face, from the new day dawning.

“A post-truth mindset only leads to chaos, therefore, I can assure you,” He continued his monologue, staring into the glowing horizon before us. “With God, as my witness, the man who stands before you, now, is a reformed, God-fearing person. I am a healed man, who has found God, in earnest but more importantly, I have found a good woman, to keep me strong and on the path of righteousness. One day at a time. Praise be to God! I have found redemption, in my heart.”

Mister Rogers straightened himself up, while wiping away a fresh tear from his left eye, saying, “As long as you have freedom and imagination, you are an artist.” He paused, to stare into my eyes, through his weepy vision, before continuing. “We are members of the local Chapel, run by Pastor Bob. You can check my references with him. I have a binder full of good references, if you want to check, outside my credit report. It’s all abstract ideas, anyway. Don’t be fooled, by what you think, you hear and see. Be a maverick artist.”

“We’ll see what your credit report says.” I said, while staring out of the large, hurricane-proof windows in the living room, at my, newly waxed, Lexus convertible, parked behind his vintage Porsche, in the ornate, paved, circular, driveway.

“Don’t see me as a statistic or liability, see me as a person on the road to redemption, Sir.” Mister Rogers searched my soul with sincere humility, while grabbing my right hand and saying, “My wife really loves this place. I hope you’ll find it in your heart, Young Man, to give me a chance, to prove to you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I am a better person.” He said, gripping my hand firmly, without blinking or taking his eyes off mine, as he continued, “Look beyond what a credit report or police report might say about this old man, standing before you. I may be down but I’m not out, Kid. Look within you, to see what’s inside of me and what we’re both capable of, in the flow of this lifetime.”

He fascinated me, with his contrite boldness, while I amused a pelican, watching me like an animal spirit, from the shadows, observing my not knowing  how to react, to the bitter, reality pill, that Mister Rogers tried forcing me to swallow, inside the spacious living room, of my beachfront home, within view of the Hillsboro Beach Lighthouse, as the last beacon flashed across my face, exposing a chary expression, in the fading night sky.

“Exchange money for culture. That’s what buyers of art do.” Mister Rogers said, staring at my artwork, adorning the walls of the home he wished to live in and create fond memories, with the love of his life. “Know that you are always provided for. Release your fear of, lack. There is always enough to share.”

I stood silent and listened, for a few more minutes, as the unconventional, Mister Rogers, enthralled me with his colorfully descriptive, stories of girlfriends, ex-wives, high-school football trophies and former employers.

“So he says to me, in front of his smoking hot secretary, you’re being terminated for perpetuating gender stereotypes and I’m like, what the fuck is a transgender and who the hell knows what an Agenderflux looks like?” He asked, seriously, before expounding on how, after doing time in jail for some petty white collar crime and trumped up attempted murder charges, in Chicago, he had found Jesus Christ and was now making a comeback, on the road to redemption.

“Force feeding deception to children is a tool of evil. Like killer clowns offering free hugs, it’s the irony of Santa Clause and political correctness.” Mister Rogers noted before adding that he had just landed a job, as Vice President of marketing, in a burgeoning Fort Lauderdale company, that was about to explode onto the stock market, with a high IPO, after landing a huge government surveillance contract, through the deep state Clinton Machine.

“All I’m asking for, Kid, is a chance. I’m already telling you what you will find. I’ll also tell you this, I’m really good with numbers.” Mister Rogers said, while licking his thumb, before smoothly taking out a checkbook, from his black leather Valextra Compasso D’Oro briefcase. “I’m prepared to pay first last and security because my company is backing the check. They are paying for my transfer and fronting all expenses for my housing, until I find a place to buy, around here, in this booming, South Florida, real estate market.” He paused, to stare into my eyes, again. “If my wife and I like it, we’ll buy this beach-house.  Can we make this a lease to own option, if I pay double the rent, per month?”

“Yes.” I answered, quickly, looking at my Breitling watch, for the time, before making my way towards the front door, hoping that Mister Rogers would get the hint and exit behind me, because I was running late, for an appointment, with prospective home buyers, at another oceanfront property, I owned, near Donald Trump’s, Mar-a-Lago estate.

While walking past the foyer, I realized Mister Roger’s was correct. South Florida, Nevada and California real estate markets were all booming. What we didn’t know, was that the inflated market and weak journalism, surreptitiously enabled diabolical forces to control pressure release valves and hide the inevitable housing market bubble burst from public interest, by suppressing the truth about bad home loans from government oversight, to brazenly over inflate loan values and credit ratings for corrupt banks, that purchased millions of dollars in airtime, on fake news outlets, like CNN and NBC, to lure unsuspecting victims, into a web of lies, that manifested the greatest heist in world history, known as, the U.S. Taxpayer Bank Bailout.

Savvy investors and insiders, quietly realized that the housing market was unsustainable and peaking within a maelstrom of fake grades, handed out by corrupt credit rating agencies, that put stock market banking institutions, on the precipice of a steep decline, due to fraud and diminished public trust, that created the perfect storm for a global financial collapse, as Wall Street sharks bet against the corrupt banking system, to fail, before ninety-nine percent of United States taxpayers were forced, to leverage their offspring’s wealth, health and social security, with government sanctioned bank bailouts.

Ironically, this reality was first hinted at, on the front page, of the May 24, 1990 Miami Herald, featuring a photo of Presidential son, Neil Bush, under the bold words ‘Taxpayers’ S&L Burden Grows. The Scope Of A Scandal: $1,300 For Each American?’.

The same day, in the ‘Living’ section, the dying newspaper, foreshadowed the birth of modern-art-gonzo-journalism, to combat fake news, in a post-truth world, with a headline screaming, “Diary of a Year in Hell”, which appeared alongside articles about 500 million viewers watching the Hispanic ‘Grammys’ on television and the death of entertainment industry titans, Jim Henson and Elizabeth Taylor, from pneumonia.

Shrewd experts kept press releases about the looming housing bubble burst, out of the mainstream media’s attention, by focusing on fake news and the never-ending War on Terror. Fueled by speculators and media reports of a thriving housing market, the trusting people of the United States, bought houses in record numbers, as the price of U.S. soil rose tangentially, with constituent,’s hopes for change and a swift victory in Iraq.

“Come on, Kid, what do you say?” Mister Rogers asked with raised eyebrows, as I locked the front door. “I’ll bring my wife over, after you’ve run my background check and discussed things with your business partner. If, you are a good Christian, and you seem to be, you’d think to yourself, what would Jesus do?” Mister Rogers paused, to look at me, then asked, “You’re not a Jew, are you?”

Mister Rogers had the charm of a snake oil salesman. You could sense he was a slippery character, but my risk of investment was minimal, so I thought seriously about giving him a chance to prove himself before answering as I walked to my convertible vehicle. “Of all things, nuns and priests taught me, growing up as a child, in Roman Catholic school, what really stuck out in my mind, besides the Golden Rule and Noah being able to gather two of every animal into his super-sized arc…”

“Hey Aleph Aleph! Yeah! Yehuda Berg!” Mr. Rogers shouted, as if he were speaking in tongues. “If people would just put aside all their bullshit, hypocrisy and realize, that as humans, we all make mistakes and move on, past all the static and try to make sense of things, before we all careen off this planet. Order from chaos, you know?”

“What impressed me most was the story of Jesus Christ.” I said, not sure exactly what Mister Rogers was talking about, before he interrupted, but I was impressed with his chutzpa, none the less. “Allegedly, He was notorious for hanging out with hookers, lepers and outliers, like you.”

“Amen! According to witnesses, Jesus Christ was a wanderer and a pretty righteous dude. He got along with everyone but died because he exposed a corrupt system of judicial politics. The Witches and their powerful law firm, killed him, by influencing public opinion, with false narratives, that manipulated ignorant Romans and Jews into begging Pontius Pilot to free Barabas the Thief. Effing punks!”

“Some would call that blasphemy.” I said, while opening the car door to my Lexus, as the convertible top folded itself into the trunk.

“Whether Jesus was a blue eyed, blond haired, gorgeous looking Jew, like Jesus of Nazareth or a Mel Brooks meets Larry David looking kike is irrelevant. Ultimately, it’s about reputation and all I’m asking, is that you let me rebuild mine. I promise, I won’t let you down, Kid.”

“We’ll see.” I said, while sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the eight-cylinder engine, under a clear blue sky, filled with chem-trails.

“I’m a born again Christian, who’s read the Bible enough times to know, that Christ died on a cross for me and I have a higher power to answer to than you. Judge not lest ye be judged. So, trust me, Kid, I’ll pay you double the rent if you give me a chance at redemption on this Earth.”

Mister Rogers winked at me when he said that and for less than a conscious nanosecond, an itch that felt peculiar in my mind produced the thought that he had morphed into a bizarre childhood icon.

It was the first of several times I noticed that Crackhead Jesus had a funny way of morphing into things. He shape-shifted, before my eyes, into a tall, slender, white, man, wearing a bright, red sweater, over a pressed, white shirt, bright red bow tie and blue jeans, with bright white sneakers. His crooked smile, looked like an inflamed clitoris, filled with disease. As I drove away, I thought I saw Mister Rogers raise two fingers at me.

After reviewing Mister and Mrs. Rogers credit scores and running a background check on both of them, I went and talked things over with my board of directors. No one, on the three-member board, wanted to assume the risk, of renting to a couple with bad credit and a criminal record.

Against my better judgment, I asked my partners to reconsider their decision. They flat out said no, because they felt these individuals were deplorable people, beyond redemption.

They reminded me of the time I rented to a reformed multimillionaire who lost his wife, family and business to crack-cocaine. I argued they were not being fair because the man was my girlfriend’s brother and I had no choice in the matter. They told me, that I always have a choice and denied my request to offer Mister Roger’s a shot at redemption.

Upon my request, as acting President of the company, I enforced my right to veto the decision of my Board of Directors and implemented an executive decision to approve Mister Rogers for a lease, with an option to buy contract, on a home, in Millionaire’s Row.

I’m not sure why, I staked my life and reputation on the line, for a stranger, that blisteringly hot, mid-December day. Perhaps it was the Christmas spirit, that made me feel generous to thoughts of redemption and new beginnings. At least, that was my excuse, I suppose, for willfully, subverting the democratic process, after failing to use Holiday cheer, to manipulate a board of directors into, taking a risk on me giving an opportunity to Mister Rogers. It was a decision I would later come to regret, for soon after opening my heart to chance, the world around me began to noticeably crumble.

The next day, I met with Mister and Mrs. Rogers, to sign a, lease-with-option-to-buy, contract, at my oceanfront property, on Hillsboro Mile. The lighthouse beacon illuminated the dark moment when Crackhead Jesus was conceived, on a private beach, in South Florida, at the time I unwittingly, accepted an offer, to dance with the Devil, under the pale moonlight, on the week before Christmas Eve.

“Here’s my first twenty, towards downpayment on this beautiful house for my beautiful wife.” Mister Rogers said, handing me a twenty dollar bill, full of hidden symbols and curious messages, while hugging his wife with a great big smile.

Nine months later, Crackhead Jesus was born, on a gaudy desk, inside the Fort Lauderdale, Florida, office of a Fortune 500 CEO, in front of a crowded room, full of shocked and disgusted eyewitnesses. That day, the mainstream media news reported, for the first time, that the housing market had begun to show signs of weakness. In the weeks and months that followed, a record number of loans, based on reputation, rather than actual stated income, came under scrutiny and foreclosure. The home loan industry buckled under the pressure of bullshit, sending the global economy into a crippling recession. On the day Crackhead Jesus was born, the housing bubble burst.

CHAPTER XX

[Lost on Perdido Beach]

“So Elvis told me about your All-Star MAMM Jam in L.A.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, as he scooped up the yellow of his fried eggs, with a crunchy, shell-shaped, piece of bacon, uncovering, ‘The Lost Souls Diner’, logo, centered, within crumbs, ketchup and gooey egg residue on his near-empty, plastic, white, plate.

I watched the television, above the bar, inside of an Alabama-border-town-diner, adorned with confederate flags and Nascar memorabilia, hanging over clean, empty tables, rearranged by nervous looking aliens, while listening to, the alleged, Black-misogynist, Herman Cain, laugh heartily, on Fox News, about the United States government, bidding on private contractors, to install big neon signs, warning trespassers, ‘We will kill you, if, you cross this wall.’, on the Mexican side of the United States border, with Central and South America.

My attention was caught off-guard by aliens, who, with every glance, through tired, sunken eyes, reflected towards me, the reality of their enslaved existence, toiling time, in steaming, hot kitchens, for less than a minimum, living-wage.

“El Doctor es Diablo.” The indigenous looking alien communicated to me, with moving lips, that made no sound, from across the room, when he realized he had my undivided attention. “El Diablo nacio en Gotthard Switzerland, Adelante de todo el mundo.”

Lip reading the brown aliens sentence, I translated his words in Spanish to mean, “The Doctor is a devil.”, and, “The Devil was born in Gotthard Switzerland, in front of the whole world.”

The aliens quickly returned to busy work polishing empty tables with white rags as the Waitress approached with a wicked scowl on her face.

“En la cocina, Pancho.” The Waitress said sternly, to the alien who claimed the Doctor was the Devil. “More coffee?” She asked, while staring me down, as the aliens scattered throughout the empty diner.

“Yes” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, as I nodded.

“What did you say about an All-Star MAMM Jam?” I asked, The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver, as he cut through his gravy-soaked, country-fried steak.

“Next week at The Greek, in Griffith Park.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, through crunches of bacon. “Elvis said you’ll be performing a MAMM Jam, with music industry titans, who’ve collectively sold over half a billion records worldwide and that you would manifest a special work of art, during the performance, to raise lots of money, for powerful retards, in Washington, D.C.”

“That’s not true.” I said, swiveling on my stool to face him, as the Waitress walked off with an angry look on her face, after refilling both of our cups, with fresh black coffee. “I’m performing with Mind, Body and Soul in Bakersfield, California, next week, to raise money for mentally handicapped kids.”

“Yeah, I know. Your gig at The Greek, starts at midnight.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, as he tossed another Benjamin, in tens, on the counter, before slowly turning on his stool to rise from the seat. “Elvis, said so, and he hasn’t been wrong yet.”

Deep in thought, I watched, through clear windows, being polished by anxious aliens, as mist slowly rolled over the Crackhead Jesus Cab and my shiny Lexus convertible, parked beside a rust truck, in the otherwise, empty, parking lot.

“Now you know, too.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, as he rose, while carefully placing the bill that I had signed for him, in his worn leather wallet. “Oh, and one more thing Elvis told me to tell you, before I walked out the door and wished you God speed, Maverick Artist.”

I felt the eyes, of every illegal alien, in the empty diner, stare through me, as The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver, grabbed a handful of mints and toothpicks, before saying, confidently, “Elvis wants you to check the Doctor’s alibi. He said, to ask some nurse, you know, about the dead hand-surgeon and the buried public-sex-scandal at Mercy Hospital and to look into the, so-called murder-suicide, of the Doctor’s curious, research assistant, in Philly.”

The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver paused, to make sure he recited word for word, what he had promised Elvis, he would memorize, verbatim, to fulfill his commitment, at The Lost Soul’s Diner. “Elvis said, that if looks could kill, the Doctor would crush someone weak, from Switzerland, while staring into the God Particle and dancing with Witches and Wichs, inside the Cern tunnel, in front of World leaders and demons, under a mountain, where France and Switzerland meet, in the Alps. He said you would know what I mean.”

The diner began to look and feel like the inside of Edward Hoppers, Nighthawks, as fog consumed the vehicles outside and alien staff disappeared, like ghosts, into the kitchen.

“Thanks for the autograph.” The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver said, as he walked towards me while making a fist.

“Oh, and one more thing, the Doctor sleeps on tombs and the bum is an oracle.” He said, while staring into my eye, as we fist-bumped under flickering lights, before he added,“ Nothing is by chance. Keep Shining. Flow.”

The Crackhead Jesus Cab Driver walked out the door and into a haze, that made him appear ethereal.

I watched the Crackhead Jesus Cab drive out of the parking lot, through high beam lights, into a celestial mist, and wondered if my acute experience, had just been a vivid dream, manifested by intense driver fatigue. To be on the safe side, I quickly swallowed the remains of my coffee, dropped forty-dollars on the counter, before anyone noticed my exit and rapidly drove away from, ‘The Lost Souls Diner’, with fat racing tires, spinning ground clouds of smoke, into the growing twilight haze.

As evening caved in on me, I was tempted to open the container Newt Gingrich provided, which I had placed in the glove compartment for safe keeping. The past couple of hours had been bizarre, to say the least, and demanded introspection, within the multi-universe.

The French Bernie Madoff popped up on my car phone screen, the text message read:

 French Bernie Madoff 

Call me now !!!!!

So, I did.

INTERIOR: LEXUS SC430, WITH TOP DOWN, PASSES BLUE CHEVY ONTO EMPTY HIGHWAY.

ARTIST IN SPORTS CAR RACES PAST ROADSIDE ATTRACTIONS AND ODDITIES THROUGH EMPTY OPEN HIGHWAY, DURING CONVERSATION AND FLASHBACKS, AS EDM MUSIC PLAYS IN BACKGROUND.

ARTIST (ON BLUETOOTH)

News travels fast, Julien, I can’t control that, but you can control setting things straight by honoring your signed contract with me, so that when I’m asked, I can speak the truth, which at this point is that you have failed to pay me what you owe.

 FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O. – HEAVY FRENCH ACCENT)

If I know you continue open your big mouth after we have a deal, I pray for you my friend!

ARTIST

Are you at the Heat Club?

 FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

 Again and again, you Tweet! Why you tweet and Facebook our business?

ARTIST

Are you at Shock Nightclub?

 FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

I think we talked together, you agreed to wait until February and stop this action, no, or you can’t honor your word?

ARTIST

You agreed to that, I didn’t.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

You don ‘t have nothing to do in your life! You need to do publicity through this kind of story?

ARTIST

Are you in Montpellier or South Beach?

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

You don ‘t have nothing, to speak about your art?

ARTIST

Stop making enemies by exploiting starving artists.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

When you brake somebody, he has nothing to lose.

ARTIST

That’s how you make money, by braking people.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

I’m not threatening you but really, we talked together and you agree to wait.

ARTIST

Stop putting words in my mouth.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

 I don ‘t understand. (PAUSE) Where you want to go? Now everybody read this article! What do u want from me? Where do you want to go?

ARTIST

You’re not my travel agent. You’re a world-famous nightclub impresario, who owes me money, for artwork, commissioned, under contract.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

Are you too stupid for understand or it’s the only way for people to talk about you?

ARTIST

Get a life! You’ve hurt a lot of people.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

Whatever, I have a lot of work. If you don’t stop, I pay my attorney and we start a new game, with the contract and we go to the court! I’m tired you fight on me and about this story!

ARTIST

Which Judge do you own?

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

Okay, Picasso. Now I explained to you but really, you are crazy, you continue. Why you are not stopping? You are fucking crazy! Poor guy, just you wait.

ARTIST

I’m not worried. Angels surround me.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

You stop now! I think, even for you, it’s simple.

ARTIST

Do the right thing, Julien. The Golden Rule, in any language, it’s just that simple.

FRENCH BERNIE MADOFF (V.O.)

Close your mouth or I promise to you, you, will have some problems! Really. Bye!

I prayed for clarity, as I drove, after the French Bernie Madoff hung up on me, without answering my question, as to his whereabouts, but she never came, so I reached for the glove compartment when the voice of Newt Gingrich, echoed, in my mind:

“Do not abuse this natural substance. It is very powerful and if not taken in moderation, could be extremely dangerous. Trust your instinct. Breathe this, only when you seek the clarity of truth in the flow of your existence. Do not attempt to use it as your only means for understanding human nature. Rather, use this as a supplement, after you have exhausted all other manner of reasoning and logic.”

Then, I saw Crackhead Jesus in the headlights, alongside the empty road. He was dressed in a creepy Easter Bunny costume surrounded by handicapped children, sporting signs of the devil and wishing passers-by, a very Merry Easter. While being attacked, by huge, bloodthirsty, mosquitos, I stared in the rearview mirror at a parade of Crackhead Jesus, dressed in sinister Easter Bunny costumes, marching alongside frightened children, as I sat in my Lexus convertible, with the top down, letting moon beams and mist, graze my being, while listening to the radio at ninety-miles per-hour.

“That was the White Stripes, from their album, Icky Thump.” A familiar voice shouted from the speakers. “This is Naughty Natalia. I’ll be with you through the witching hour, casting spells with music, so you can flow safely through the night. Keep shining, all you Light-workers out there. Flow.”

“Am I losing my mind?” I thought out loud, when the hair-raising vision of deformed children, standing beside strangers, in menacing Easter Bunny costumes, holding signs stating, ‘Needy Latinos Go to Hell’, disappeared from my immediate line of sight.

“Had God really spoken to me in a dream and was I really about to meet Elvis in New Orleans at some Asian Massage parlor?” I thought to myself, sometime later, as I pulled into a comfortable spot on Perdido Beach, to rest and recover.

Confusion, created a maelstrom of thoughts in my head. So, I slowly packed my peace pipe while contemplating the puzzling world around me. Seeking clarity, from the free flow, I pondered my fate and the bizarre series of events which had brought me to this moment in time, as I watched the sun come up, alone, on Perdido Beach, in the state of Alabama.

CHAPTER XXI

 [You Can Say Cox, Badcock or Dick’s But You Can’t Say Crackhead Jesus.]

“That’s censorship!” I noted, to everyone at the long glass table, inside the rich, executive offices, at Cox Media Headquarters.

“Look, Kid, we’re not, putting billboards up, all over the United States that say, “Crackhead Jesus is coming.” The CEO said, to me, in earnest, from his seat at the head of the table.

“And he doesn’t pull out.” I added, immediately.

“Not happening.” He said without skipping a beat. “Don’t fool yourself, Kid, I know the fear of living under constant surveillance and I appreciate the service you’ve done for our country, as a Naval Intelligence Officer, but now, you’re promoting a movie, with a fucking horrendous title, before it’s made?”

“It’s going to get made. In seventy-two hours. The script is done.” I said, with determination, staring in the CEO’s eyes, before gently sliding my script over to him. “You can try denying my Constitutional right to free speech but good luck fighting capitalism and the almighty dollar.”

The CEO read the first few pages in silence, before I asked everyone at the table: “So, how much is it going to cost, to peacefully advertise, a work of art that promotes compassionate wealth and The Golden Rule, titled, ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?’”

“Your paintings have sperm all over them.” One of the Cox board-members chimed in, behind me, before the CEO could answer.

“My DNA is in the paintings.” I answered succinctly. “To prevent counterfeits.”

Suddenly, the only Woman, in a roomful of land-sharks, made an odd noise that caused everyone to immediately turn and stare at her, for an awkward bit, before I continued, saying: “Creativity is under attack and fake news isn’t covering the story, so I authenticated my artwork by mixing my DNA, in with the oil paint.”

“You’re telling us,” The strong Woman spoke, while staring at me point blank, with a flush face. “Art forgery factories in China, are threatening the global fine-art market?”

“I’m saying, that if you pass a black light or UV spectrometer, over one of my paintings, and it glows, then you, Madam, are lucky enough to own, or be in the presence of, one of my original, works of fine art and not a fake reproduction or Chinese copy.”

“Tell me about your film. Crackhead Jesus: The Movie. What the fuck?” The CEO mumbled, under his breath, at the head of the table. “And only because it is a matter of time, are the Russians involved?”

CHAPTER XXII

[The Muse]

INTERIOR – MIAMI – OLD TUDOR – BATHROOM – MORNING

Large, hand-carved, wooden-arrow-sign, pointing out, “Phantom Ranch, Kaibab Trail, Grand Canyon National Park, 7.5 Miles”, lays atop a mound of rubble, in ruins, of what was being described, by arguing couple underneath the mess, as a toxic relationship, within a maelstrom of natural disasters and Acts of God.

MUSE (SHELLSHOCKED)

Get out! Everywhere you go, chaos follows.

ARTIST (Spitting out fragments of Chinese drywall)

So, now the hurricane was my fault. What about the tornado, at the Grand View Palace, was that my fault too?

ARTIST AND MUSE notice NUDE painting OF MUSE HANGING steadfast on an unscathed portion of devastated WALL.

ARTIST (SINCERE)

I manifested that with pure love for you, my Muse.

MUSE (Shrill)

I hate you! (REACHES FOR PAINTING) I’ll smash it.

ARTIST watches, with a free spirit AND loving eyes as MUSE TEARS PAINTING OFF WALL AND RAISES HER WOUNDED knee, IN SLOW MOTION, while staring deep into ARTIST’S open soul.

ARTIST (Accepting)

As you wish, my Muse.

ARTIST AND MUSE SHARE honest moment of love, forgiveness and human redemption organically, through art appreciation.

ARTIST (V.O.)

With mixed emotions, she spared the art, while pushing me out of her loving arms and into the cold, porcelain tub, that saved our lives.

MUSE (Flummoxed)

You can’t come by anymore! I’m not looking for a super hero.

ARTIST

You just said, I’m a walking disaster, now you’re calling me a super hero. I’m just an artist.

                                                   MUSE (Angry)

You’re not an artist, retard, you’re a businessman.

                                                   ARTIST (Defensive)

I’m a businessman and an artist.

                                                MUSE (Exasperated)

My God! You’re a businessman and a politician, going through a midlife crisis, who thinks he’s an artist, while I’m going through menopause, in the middle of a fucking disaster! Jesus Christ! Don’t you get it?

ARTIST (LAUGHS)

Now, you’re blaming Jesus. (ARTIST ATTEMPTS EMBRACE BUT IS BRUTALLY BRUSHED OFF BY DISHEVELED MUSE IN A CLOUD OF WRECKAGE and dust.)

MUSE (Irate)

Your jokes aren’t funny. We need time apart. Stay with your sister I’ll stay with my Mom.

ARTIST (Concerned)

My God! My sister!

ARTIST KISSES MUSE ON CHEEK BEFORE RUNNING TO JEEP THROUGH CLOUD OF SMOKE AND PILES OF SHARP, DANGEROUS, DEBRIS ON STREETS.

EXTERIOR: TOTAL CHAOS AFTER NATURAL DISASTER – DANGER EVERYWHERE

INTERIOR JEEP – DAY – (MOVING)

ARTIST ON CELL PHONE FRANTIC.

ARTIST (Intense)

She never made it to your place?

VOICE OVER SWIPE TO SPLIT SCREEN REVEALS SISTER’S FRIEND, NAKED IN BED, GROOMING HERSELF AFTER A SHOWER, IN HER BOHEMIAN BEDROOM, UNSCATHED BY HURRICANE.

FRIEND (Sarcastic)

N-o-o-o-o-o-o. Your sister never made it over here.

  ARTIST (Shocked)

My neighbor said, she saw her leave, for your crib, the night before.

ARTIST QUICKLY MANUEVERS JEEP OVER AND AROUND HUGE OBSTACLES IN ROAD after CLASS 5 Hurricane and Tornado Disaster in Miami Beach.

SISTER’S FRIEND PAINTS HER TOE NAILS WRAPPED IN PLUSH PINK TOWELS AS CNN BLASTS HEADLINES THROUGH FLAT SCREEN TELEVISION ON WALL.

FRIEND (Annoyed)

Well, she’s wrong, because your sister told me, that she was staying at the Grandview Palace, to enjoy some peace and quiet. (Awkward PAUSE) Don’t tell me you left your sister, alone at The Palace, Puto!

ARTIST (Defensive)

She didn’t answer the door. I thought she was safe, with you, Wench.

EXTERIOR – GRANDVIEW PALACE – DAY

A COP ON BULLHORN directs ARTIST SAFELY AROUND DOWNED PALM TREES AND LIVE ELECTRICAL WIRE DANCING ON DANGEROUS, DEBRIS COVERED, WET STREETS.

SATELLITE NEWS TRUCKS SURROUND DEVASTATED BUILDING. CAMERA OPERATORS CAPTURE FOOTAGE OF SHATTERED GLASS AND DEBRIS THROUGHOUT THE GRAND VIEW PALACE.

COP (INTIMIDATING)

You can’t go in there, Mister!

ARTIST JUMPS OUT OF PARKED JEEP AND tactfully CONFRONTS OFFICER.

ARTIST (UNRESTRAINED)

My, Sister!

ARTIST, IN TOTAL SHOCK, POINTS AT WRECKAGE OF SKYSCRAPER, THE GRAND VIEW PALACE, COMPLETELY DEVASTATED. SURROUNDING AREA LOOKS LIKE A WAR-ZONE IN PARADISE, AS REFRIGERATORS, LEATHER COUCHES AND FINE ART PAINTINGS, DANGLE FROM MANGLED, FLOOR-TO-CEILING-GLASS, SKYSCRAPER, BALCONIES.

PLANE FLYING A SUGGESTIVE BANNER advertising ART BASEL MIAMI WEEK event, HIGH Above NEWS HELICOPTERS AND MANGLED SHIPS, ALONG THE Florida Coastline FOR OBLIVIOUS TOURISTS AND HIPSTERS, GATHERED FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD, TO MARVEL AT MAN-MADE ART AND GAWK AT THE BEAUTIFUL CHAOS, CREATED IN THE WRATH OF MOTHER NATURE.

COP (Unrelenting)

Sorry, Sir, but it’s not safe for you to go in. Put her name on the list over there and we’ll let you know if she’s one of the survivors.

NEWS PRODUCER (Aggressive)

There’s the artist!

NEWS PRODUCER points to ARTIST. SLEW OF CAMERA OPERATORS SWARM AND SWALLOW ARTIST AND COP IN FLASH OF PAPARAZZI AS REPORTERS SHOVE MICROPHONES IN ARTIST’S FACE WHILE MERCILESSLY SHOUTING NONSENSICAL QUESTIONS OVER ONE ANOTHER.

REPORTER #1

Are you the artist who painted those bizarre images, dangling from the balcony, next to the refrigerator?

NEWS PRODUCER

Why did you paint those grotesque images?

REPORTER #2

Are you an artist or a hack?

REPORTER #3, Provocatively dressed, blind, moderate Muslim, Westernized feminist Woman, working for RT News, holds phallic microphone in front of artist while stealing scene from throng of vapid journalists, standing on wooden boxes with faces full of make-up, in front of live cameras, broadcasting natures wrath, to a global audience, in real time, via satellite.

REPORTER #3 (Liberated)

Who the hell is Crackhead Jesus?

SWIPE SCREEN TO

INTERIOR – COX MEDIA HEADQUARTERS – BOARDROOM

COX CEO (In Disbelief)

Unorthodox, script.

ARTIST (Confident)

What did you expect from something called, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?

CHAPTER XXIII

[Sister Mary]

INTERIOR:

Inner-city, private Catholic school – multi-cultural, first-grade classroom.

The Artist, as a child, sits, observing an attractive, young, Nun, SISTER MARY, pacing in front of a long, blackboard, while frantically struggling with feminine itch in front of children.

YOUNG ARTIST, suggestively walks his fingers across a Bible, open to Mathew, verse 7:12, which covers an open Spider Man comic book, on the table in front of him, surrounded by giggling classmates, while Sister Mary draws a detailed and colorful, cock, crowing on blackboard, using chalk, in front of children.

SISTER MARY

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

SISTER MARY, hands full of chalk dust, brands her black habit, with ghostlike, scarlet-letters, rabidly swiping her fingers across her nether regions, while gallantly teaching Bible passages, to a class full of open-minded, young intellects.

BOY sitting beside YOUNG ARTIST, picks his nose and snickers, at the crude reference being made, with regard to feminine itch issues witnessed, on Scripture.

SISTER MARY (Embarrassed)

Who’s laughing?

SISTER MARY turns in her veil, to see the young Artist leaning back on a chair, balanced on two legs, while naughty boys and girls giggle behind her.

SISTER MARY (Self Conscious)

Are you laughing at my cock?

YOUNG ARTIST falls over in his chair as the classroom erupts into laughter that can be heard, through the halls of the Christian Academy.

SISTER MARY itches her scratch with cloudy fingers, while trying to maintain order over hysterical children.

INTERIOR:

Empty, Inner-city, private, Catholic school, Hallway.

Classroom doors are sprung open, one after the other, by curious nuns with scowling faces.

CHAPTER XXIV

[Mother Superior Meets Mama Massagee]

“Infinity learns from mistakes and is constantly evolving.” Sister Mary said, to the young Artist’s parents, who sat beside him, patiently, inside the Principal’s office, at the Catholic School, after a stern Mother Superior, scolded their son, for being precocious in class. “Creativity is perfect. Art is perfect, because it is infinite, through nature. We are all artists, Child.” She said, turning to the Young Artist. “You weren’t laughing at my cock, were you?”

“For the love of Jesus, what was the boy, laughing at, like a hyena?” Mother Superior exploded under Jesus Christ, Himself.

“He wasn’t laughing at my cock.” Sister Mary said, turning her head, to Mother Superior, while scratching her kibbles and bits, over a powdered, black habit, after staring deep into the young Artist’s eyes for truth. “Jesus knows, the Boy was snickering about something else.”

“Is that true?” The Young Artist’s Mother asked, with a stern look, backed up from the boy’s Father, that demanded an explanation, immediately, or else.

“It wasn’t her cock, Mommy.” The Young Artist cried, with tears streaming down his contorted face, in total surrender. “It was her pussy!”

“Inappropriate!” Mother Superior shouted, with veins popping, from her neck and forehead, while brandishing a raised ruler, under a wooden cross. “Totally inappropriate! Obviously, your son is disruptive and asks too many questions.” She said, turning to the Artist’s shocked parents.

“Feminine itch is a legitimate question of hygiene.” The Artist’s Mother spoke to authority, with a strong Spanish accent.

“He’s a boy.” Mother Superior, replied aghast.

“So?” The Artist’s Father asked.

“Hades! He’s too young.” Mother Superior, replied. “As if, he should know, about yeast infections at five.”

“Who said anything about yeast infections or Haiti?” The Artist’s Father asked, the blushing Sister Mary, while she squirmed, in beet red colors and ravenously itched her private parts, conspicuously, from the Young Artist’s perspective, in the moment of beautiful chaos that surrounded him, when he envisioned Jesus wink, knowingly, from the cross.

“Hang in there, Kid.” Jesus said, to the Young Artist, as Mother Superior, pointed to Him, with enraged eyes, as He suffered and died on a cross, for sake of saints and sinners saying, with his last breath, “Remember the Golden Rule.”

“You’re never too young, to learn proper hygiene.” The Artist’s Mother said, while turning to her son and gently patting the back of his hand to calm him.

Mother Superior, feeling threatened by the Young Artist’s Mother, consoling her child, slapped her ruler on the desk, saying firmly: “If he misses any more days from school, we’ll have to hold him back a grade.”

“Why?” The Artist’s Mother asked, with great concern.

“His test scores aren’t suffering any.” The Artist’s Father noted, sternly. “He has an A+ average and volunteers at Church, as an Alter boy.”

“Attendance is important. It is part of discipline.” Mother Superior said. “He’s missed thirty-nine days, so far and we’re not even half-way through the school year. Technically, I can report both of you for child abuse. What would Jesus do?”

Mother Superior paused, to stare at both flustered parents intently, before adding, with a raised eyebrow. “If you’re not illegal aliens, of course, because Jesus wouldn’t want the kids to end up in foster care.”

“Jesus knows we’re not, so, don’t worry, they won’t be.” The Artist’s Mother said, while standing up and grabbing the Young Artist’s hand, as he stood up with his family. “Don’t punish our Boy for being smart or threaten us for being legal, immigrants.”

“Class clowns grow up to be comedians, artists or retards.” Mother Superior interjected, with a raised ruler, under the image of a man, nailed to a cross. “And he’s not funny.” She paused, to let the silence sink in. “So, either he’s on his way to being an artist or a retard. Either way, Jesus loves both.”

“The choice is yours, Son.” Sister Mary said, to the sniffling Young Artist, with teary eyes, cowering within the safe space formed by the firm grip of his Parents.

“Be an Artist.” Sister Mary whispered softly in his ear, while scratching herself mad.

“I take my son to the Holy Land in Israel, the pyramids in Egypt, and The Great Wall of China.” The Artist’s Father said, while holding his son’s hand. “I also, walk him through Wall Street, Hell’s Kitchen and The Bronx, so he can see, all sides of the story. Not just what you and others force feed him as truth.”

The Artist’s Father approached Mother Superior’s large wooden desk, with his son and wife beside him and asked, “Tell me, Mother, what my Son will learn, in your textbooks and classroom, that he will not learn more acutely, by experiencing history in person, with his family, in the real world?”

“For Christ’s sake Mister, you took your family on vacation to a war zone!” Mother Superior shouted, with veins bulging, under a violently graphic cross.

EXTERIOR- FRENCH QUARTER- NEW ORLEANS – SIGN ABOVE RED LIGHT READS: ORIENTAL HEALTH SPA – BANG KOK SPA- SAUNA WHIRLPOOL – BODY RUBS

INTERIOR- ASIAN MASSAGE PARLOR- OILS, CANDLES, INCENSE SMOKE RISES IN DIMLY LIT ROOM WITH RED LIGHTS UNDER GAUDY LAMPSHADES AS EVENTIDE, FROM, ‘A DARK ENCHANTMENT’, BY SECESSION, PLAYS IN BACKGROUND, UNDER CLOCK, NOTING TIME IS, 11:11.

ARTIST (VOICE OVER)

Days before Christmas Eve, at the magic hour, I awoke, face down, on a massage table, staring deep into intricate designs, within an oriental rug, made by ancient artisans, inside an Asian Spa House, in the French Quarter, of New Orleans.

OVERHEAD SHOT OF WHITE MALE, BARE ASSED ON TABLE BEING MASSAGED BY MATURE ASIAN WOMAN.

MAMA MASSAGEE (Heavy Asian Accent)

Humility teaches many things, not least of which is patience.” (MASSAGING ARTISTS POSTERIOR) “Without humility, there is no compassion.

ARTIST TRIES LIFTING HEAD BUT MAMA MASSAGEE QUICKLY PUSHES THE BACK OF HIS HEAD DOWN.

MAMA MASSAGEE (Laughing)

Mother Superior teach you lesson.

ARTIST TRIES LIFTING HEAD, AGAIN AND AGAIN, MAMA MASSAGEE PUSHES THE BACK OF HIS HEAD, DOWN, INTO MASSAGE TABLE.

MAMA MASSAGEE (Soothing)

Relax. (KNEEDING ARTIST’S BUTTOCKS, LIKE DOUGH, WITH WANDERING HANDS AS HE MOANS.) Mama Massagee, teach you lesson too. (SLAPS ARTIST’S ASS DEFTLY) Okay, Picasso, flip over. The Doctor wants sample.

ARTIST (TURNS TO LOOK AT HER WITH CONCERN)

What Doctor?

MAMA MASSAGEE (SLAPPING ARTISTS ASS HARDER)

The Love Doctor, Elvis. He prescribe happy ending, for you, special. Now, turn, over, Picasso, (SNAPS FINGERS) Let’s go.

ARTIST (Curious)

Elvis, is he here? (HIS HUGE PENIS SLIPS OFF TABLE AS HE TURNS OVER)

MAMA MASSAGEE (WIDE EYED)

Elvis left building. He say, you come. Me, take good care of you, while we wait for his return.

AS ARTIST ADJUSTS HIMSELF, MAMA MASSAGEE WALKS OVER TO TABLE, PUTS IN CD, PRESSES PLAY AND HANDS UPRIGHT NUDE ARTIST “A DARK ENCHANTMENT” CD COVER. AS MUSIC PLAYS AND LIGHTS DIM, HE STARES, AT BIZARRE OCCULT IMAGES, ADORNING CD COVER, WHILE SHE SIZES HIM UP, WITH A BIG SMILE ON HER FACE AND POURS WARM OIL INTO HER TINY, AGING HANDS.

MAMA MASSAGEE (Rapid Fire)

Elvis want me to play Secession for you during our session. He say, you keep rare disk, for trip to L.A. with Newt Gingrich, for retards and memories. (PAUSES TO RUN HANDS AND FINGERS OVER ARTIST’S SENSITIVE BITS BEFORE WHISPERING) Now lie back, listen and let me, let you, relax. Elvis, come later. You, come now, Picasso.

CHAPTER XXV

[The Lawyer Whose Father Is Friends With The Judge]

INTERIOR – GRAND VIEW PALACE – DAY- DISASTER AREA- COMPLETE CHAOS

GIANT CHANDELIER SMASHED ON GROUND, DEBRIS FLOATS IN WAIST-HIGH FLOODWATER, AS ARTIST RUSHES INTO SUBMERGED LOBBY, WHERE HE SEES HIS SISTER, WEARING A PINK ROBE, SHOCKED, SHIVERING AND CRYING ATOP A BABY GRAND PIANO, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SUNKEN ROOM. HER FEET ARE CUT AND BLEEDING.

ARTIST WADES THROUGH FLOODWATER TOWARDS SISTER PAST SWIMMING RATS AND FLOATING CONDOMS.

ARTIST (DISTRAUGHT)

I’m so sorry! Are you alright!

ARTIST SISTER (HYSTERICAL)

No! I’m bleeding! Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you come get me?

ARTIST (GRABS FLOATING PLASTIC BAG)

I did. (USING BAG AS TOURNIQUET TO STOP BLEEDING ON SISTER’S LEFT FOOT.) Your neighbor said you went to your foul-mouthed friend’s house.

ARTIST SISTER (WINCES)

Ouch! Cabron! That hurt.

ARTIST (GRABS FLOATING PLASTIC BAG)

Sorry! (USING BAG AS TOURNIQUET TO STOP BLEEDING ON SISTER’S RIGHT FOOT.) Come on, Sis, let’s just get out of here.

ARTIST GENTLY LIFTS SISTER AND CARRIES HER OUT, STRUGGLING TO HOLD HER FEET ABOVE WATER, AS INTERNATIONAL NEWS CAMERA CREWS AND FLASH PHOTOGRAPHERS, CAPTURE THE PHOTO-OP MOMENT FOR PRESS HEADLINES.

INTERIOR – JEEP – AFTERNOON (MOVING PAST DOWNED PALM TREES UNDER SUNNY SKIES AND FLOODED ROAD CHAOS IN SOUTH FLORIDA.)

ARTIST LOOKS AT HIS SISTER SOBBING, IN PASSENGER SEAT, AS HE TALKS ON PHONE.

ARTIST (IRATE)

Did you get Crackhead Jesus out of my house yet?

RUMPELSTILTSKIN (VOICE OVER PHONE FILTER)

He’s out. I’ve got the keys. I told you, my partner’s Dad is friends with the Judge.

SPLIT SCREEN FROM VOICE OVER TO

EXTERIOR POOL AREA OF BEACH HOUSE MISTER ROGERS LEASED FROM ARTIST AND HIS ASSOCIATES. WHITE SHEET WITH RED LIPSTICK GRAFFITI HANGING FROM BALCONY READS, “WE SURVIVED HURRICANE WILMA”.

YOUNG MULTICULTURAL GIRLS IN BIKINIS AND MIDDLE-AGED MEN IN SURF SHORTS FROLIC BY POOL, FILLED WITH FLOATING COOLERS FULL OF BEER AND ALCOHOL, SMOKING JOINTS AND MAKING OUT ON LOUNGE CHAIRS, WHILE RUMPELSTILTSKIN, HOLDING LIT MARIJUANA CIGARETTE, TALKS TO ARTIST ON CELL PHONE, WALKING AROUND BIG MANICURED YARD AND GUESTS, TO GET TO QUIET AREA, AWAY FROM LOUD MUSIC, BEING MIXED BY WORLD FAMOUS DJ, AT CROWDED HURRICANE AFTER PARTY.

ARTIST (DISTRACTED)

I’m taking my sister to the hospital.  Meet me at the beach house, afterwards.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN (STEPS ONTO PRIVATE BEACH)

I hope she’s alright. (STARES AT SWIMSUIT MODELS PLAYING VOLLEYBALL) Call me when you’re done. (WAVES AT GIRLS) I’ll be there. (SMOKES REEFER)

POLICE and EMERGENCY SIRENS, BLAIR and FLASH as ARTIST and SISTER drive past endless uprooted palm trees, downed electrical wires and flooded Avenues in Miami Beach.

Pastel ART DECO style couches float down street.

Limousines and eighteen wheelers lay turned upside down.

Dazed people wander in confused shock, the injured HOWL.

ARTIST (V.O. NARRATION)

My soul currency ceased to be liquid as the truth of the matter, that I no longer had an identity, sank into my brain. I was no one and everyone. Life meant nothing and everything in an instant.

A twisted staircase leads to a plot of land where a house once stood.

Artist stares at unscathed home, as he drives by and in an enigmatic moment, senses the evil that once took place inside.

INTERIOR: CANDLES HIGHLIGHT DREADFUL SCREAMS OF GAUDY WALLPAPER FROM ALL SIDES OF TORTURE CHAMBER, WHERE FOSTER CHILDREN ARE TIED TO CHAIRS WITH INTRICATE ROPE KNOTS AND ABUSED BY TRUSTED ADULTS WHILE CHAMBER MUSIC PLAYS ON LARGE WOODEN RCA SPEAKERS.

ON ANTIQUE TABLE, A LARGE SPINAL SCREW IS SEEN BESIDE BLACK CANDLES AND WIKI AIRLINES BOARDING PASS HOLDER IN FRONT OF SILENT TELEVISION BLARING CNN HEADLINES.

EXTERIOR: JEEP DRIVES THROUGH AFFLUENT SUBURB WITH MANICURED LAWNS, SHRUBBERY AND NO LITTER OR DEBRIS.

ARTIST, IN blink of an eye, enters PRISTINE NEIGHBORHOOD, UNSCATHED BY THE HURRICANE.

AS SISTER CRIES IN PASSENGER SEAT, LIFE BUSTLES outside, like nothing has happened.

EXTERIOR – HOSPITAL – EMERGENCY ROOM – DAY

Injured PEOPLE and AMBULANCES surround entrance, as ARTIST pulls up in JEEP, with INJURED SISTER, to park in packed lot, full of chaos and misery, WHILE LOCAL TELEVISION EMERGENCY NEWS AND INFORMATION IS REBROADCAST, ON RADIO, BY FACELESS ANCHOR.

CHAPTER XXVI

[This Traffic Report Sponsored By, Crackhead Jesus]

“I want a one second commercial.” The Artist said, while taking a Montblanc pen, out of his leather Cole Haan briefcase, along with a company checkbook and some graffiti stickers.

“Not gonna happen.” The Cox CEO said, as he carefully held the Artist’s colorful, canvas-wrapped, artwork, with the tips of his manicured fingers.

“I just want to flash this image across the screen at the beginning and end of every commercial break on your news outlets throughout the month of December and into Spring break.” The Artist said, while distributing black and white bumper stickers that read, ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’, to everyone participating, in the intense boardroom discussions, at COX Media Headquarters.

“So, let me understand something, you’re saying, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, is like, Jack the Ripper meets Nostradamus, with a spinal screw and paintbrushes.” The Cox CEO noted, after emotionally digesting the sticker. “And the moral of the story is, The Golden Rule?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” The Artist said, while scratching under his clean-shaven chin, as he observed the board member’s reactions to his paintings.

“A spiritual horror flick.” Said a Suit, inspecting images hidden within waves of paint on canvas.

“Crackhead Jesus is the Freddie Krueger of Faith based films.” The Cox CEO, said aloud.

“The Eraserhead of animated movies based on graphic novels.” Another Suit noted, while engaging the modern-art-gonzo-journalism in front of his eyes.

“Your sperm is in these paintings and they are all storyboards, filled with clues and subliminal messages, drawn in animated fractals of fluid turbulence, you call the beautiful chaos.” An astute Blonde, in a striking, red pant suit noted before adding, with a smile. “I love it.”

“I see Fibonacci numbers. Am I correct?” The Cox CEO asked, while gingerly placing the canvas storyboard he admired, on the table, in front of everyone.

“Yes, Sir.” The Artist said, with a genuine smile.

“Some of this stuff has forecast world events and predated news headlines.” The Cox CEO said, while staring deeply into the complex artwork and noting the historical date of completion on each art piece. “So, modern-art-gonzo-journalism helps elevate awareness, mood, solve crimes and document human history, through news-tips, from overly-concerned, mostly-unemployed, investigative-journalists and whistleblowers, rooted inside the deep state, communicating subversively, through the Modern Art Music Movement, at live, multi-media events, around the world?”

“Now you’re getting it.” The Artist said, with encouragement.

“Your art tells untold stories, of muted whistleblowers, left high and dry, by a slow dying news industry and broken justice system. Am I correct?” The Cox CEO asked the Artist, while carefully sliding the canvas wrapped storyboard across the board room table for other board members to inspect and pass along.

“Yes.” The Artist responded.

With the tips of his fingers, the Cox CEO began to analyze another curious painting, while saying, “Your work requires an open-mind, that thinks tangentially and your disgustingly titled film, is about an underground force of modern-art-gonzo-journalists and crime-stoppers, financed, through compassionate wealth, to paint news and information, in revolutionary times, through the Modern Art Music Movement, creating fine-art, for future generations to digest. Am I correct?”

“Yes.” The Artist responded.

Attentively, picking up another vivid storyboard on canvas, the Cox CEO said, “The subliminal art is collected by knowledgeable, jet setting hipsters, quirky, trust-fund-babies, international nightclub impresarios, philanthropic despots and music industry icons. Basically, your script is filled with colorful characters. Am I correct?”

“Yes.” The Artist responded.

“So, let me get this straight. Modern-art-gonzo-journalist’s, while fighting an enchanted law firm of witches, exposing rogue nuclear sub Captains and stopping the serial-killer next door, document the Modern Civil War, the way Goya sketched history, as it unfolded on streets, during the Inquisition and Napoleonic Wars, enabling the United Slaves of America, to pass through the Modern Dark Ages, into the New Age of Aquarius, creating a Modern Renaissance.” The Cox CEO conceptualized things, without pausing for air. “Oh, and I almost forgot, the protagonist is extremely well-endowed and the ethereal, Three Muses, pop-up, gratuitously topless, every now and then, throughout your script. So it’s at least PG-13. Am I correct?”

“Yes, in a nutshell.” The Artist responded.

“It’s metaphor, to empower public breast feeding and inspire women. I get it.”  The nimble Woman noted, while sniffing one of the DNA Series paintings and coyly winking at the Artist, when nobody noticed.

“All this in a 90-minute movie?” The Cox CEO interjected, while passing along another vibrant painting for board members to study.

“Actually, I only have ten minutes.” The Artist responded, blushing.

“I thought you said it was a planned seven movie series?” The Cox CEO asked, without looking away from the art.

“I’ve assembled a talented team of filmmakers.” The Artist said. “We have seventy-two hours to make a short film, that will introduce the main characters, during a non-stop movie-making-marathon in Delray Beach, Florida.”

“My, Nana, lives there.” The Cox CEO said, cheerfully probing another storyboard composition.

“Mine too.” The demure Woman blurted, with a fresh breath of fond memories, that filled the room with joy.

“I love that place.” The Cox CEO said, with a smile. “Now let’s talk about your idea, of having Crackhead Jesus, sponsor traffic and weather reports, during Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Michael Savage, our most popular conservative-radio-talk-shows and how much money it’ll cost you to do so.”

CHAPTER XXVII

[Crackhead Jesus The Musical]

I found myself sitting on a throne, beside a giant in the film industry, at The Media Market Expo on Miami Beach away from the paparazzi, in a hidden cove within view of the infinity pool at a Five-Star Luxury Resort Hotel as the sun rose over the horizon.

“So it’s not a faith based movie?” The Giant Film Producer asked, from his large throne, as we shared private moments in an intimate realm, away from the spotlight.

“I guess it could be, for Christians, from the XXX Church, who watch porn.”

“Because Jesus loves porn stars, right?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re not hungry enough.” The Giant Film Producer said, while looking down on me, like I was desert, on a tray, beside him. “You’ve got everything to lose right now, Kid and nothing to gain, making anything with, Crackhead Jesus, in the title. You might as well call your movie, ‘Fuck You, You Fucking Retarded Fuck’.”  The Giant Film Producer said, as he caught the attention of one of the roaming reporters. “You’ll have as much luck getting it financed, as, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie.”

The Roaming Reporter alerted photographers and soon a rush of paparazzi surrounded The Giant Film Producer and I, as we sat on ornate thrones and discussed the art of capturing public illusions on camera while entertaining thoughts of risk, reward and opportunity, in the business of movie-making, in front of a live audience.

“So, tell us about, Crackhead Jesus: The Musical.” A reporter asked, as The Giant Film Producer shook his head and laughed, under the huge hand, he put over his big mouth.

CHAPTER XXVIII

[Crackhead Jesus At Kings Point]

EXTERIOR – KINGS POINT ACTIVE ADULT RETIREMENT COMMUNITY –RECREATION CENTER – SUNNY DAY

CHEM TRAILS IN SKY FORECAST ANARCHY AS ELDERLY LOUNGE BY POOL AND TENNIS COURTS WHILE WOMEN INSIDE REC ROOM PLAN TALENT SHOW.

INTERIOR – REC ROOM – DAY-

CARTOON NETWORK SHOUTS OUT SCOOBIE DOO AND YOGI BEAR RERUNS IN CLOSED CAPTIONING, WHILE CNN SILENTLY SCREAMS HEADLINES from MUTED, wall mounted, TV’s, that can be seen in background from every angle of WELL LIT room FULL OF POOL TABLES, PING PONG TABLES, MAGAZINES AND BOARD GAMES.

SMOKE FILLED REC ROOM FULL OF ELDERLY WOMEN GOSSIPING WHILE KNITTING EROTIC COCK SOCKS, CROCHETING NIPPLE TASSELS, PLAYING CARDS AND SMOKING REEFER, AS BOBBY DARIN CROONS, FROM OVERHEAD SPEAKERS.

NANA

I just got back from seeing, Kinky Boots and Crackhead Jesus, in Chicago, off Broadway, with my Bubula. Oy Vay, what a production!

MILDRED (WEARS HEARING AID)

Kinky boobs? (ROLLS JOINT ON TABLE FULL OF MEDICINAL WEED)

IN CORNER OF ROOM, NEAR WINDOW, SHOWCASING BATHING BEAUTIES, WEARING SWIMMING CAPS, EXERCISING IN POOL, HAPPY MALE RESIDENT, PASSED OUT, IN CHAIR, WITH COCKTAIL IN HAND, COMES TO LIFE.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT (Mumbles)

Boobs.

NANA (CHECKING HER FACEBOOK MESSAGES)

Chics with dicks. (PUFFS JOINT AND EXHALES WORDS UNDER BREATH OVER TABLE FULL OF CARDS AND GAMBLING CHIPS.) Someone at Facebook is racist against well endowed, Dames.

DINAH (PLAYING CARDS, THROWS ACE OF HEARTS DOWN ON TABLE)

Transgender- (ADUSTING HER ADULT DIAPER WITH HAND SHE HELD ACE IN)-phobic.

PEARL (ADDING A SHOT OF SPICED RUM TO HER DRINK)

Never mind Mildred, let her finish telling us about Crackhead Jesus: The Musical.

FREIDA (KNITTING FAR FROM MILDRED)

Pass the joint will ya, Alice.

MILDRED (FROM ACROSS THE TABLE)

 Alice always Bogarts.

ALICE (KNITTING WITH JOINT IN MOUTH)

My neighbor is forced to eat cat food, because of that half-Schvatz-Muslim, Hussein Obama.

MILDRED (FROM ACROSS THE TABLE)

Did you say, Ethel? I heard she has AIDS.

PENELOPE (EATING PASTRY BESIDE MILDRED)

Herpes. Ethel has Herpes, not AIDS.

MILDRED

Herbie’s toupee is terrible. (LICKS PAPER TO SEAL JOINT)

MEIRA (PUTTING CARDS DOWN ON TABLE )

Yes, Mildred.Herbie in Building 69, gave Ethel in Building 70 herpes. In spite of his horrible toupee.

MILDRED (Rolling Eyes)

She’s not the only tramp around here, Herbie gave herpes too. (PASSES JOINT TO PENELOPE WHILE STARING INTENTLY, AT PRUDENCE, THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE ROOM WHO HAS REMAINED SILENT THROUGHOUT THE SCENE, SHE’S BLENDED INTO BACKGROUND, WHILE SIPPING SPIKED TEA, SMOKING WEED AND PLAYING CARDS.)

NANA STANDS TO TAKE A BOW, UNDER TV SCREENING CNN HEADLINES ACROSS FOREHEADS OF CNN CAST, AS THE WOMEN GROAN AND ROLL THEIR EYES ALONG WITH ANDERSON COOPER, HAMMING IT UP, NEXT TO HEART RATE MACHINES, PLUGGED INTO  THE APATHETIC ARMS, OF PASSED OUT GENTLEMEN, SITTING IN ALL FOUR CORNERS OF THE ACTIVE ROOM.

NANA (Attention Grabber)

Ladies can we please talk about Crackhead Jesus: The Musical. There’s a young man from New York, he’s coming to discuss a marathon movie making competition, starring yours truly.

PRUDENCE (OFFENDED)

Crackhead Jesus!

NANA (Rolls Eyes)

He says he’ll consider filming our vaudeville act on stage and putting it in his movie, if we throw in a few, Crackhead Jesus, now and then and feed the crew.

FREIDA (Crocheting Elephant Head Thong)

I met Crackhead Jesus in Caracas Venezuela once. (Reminiscing) Huge cock.

DINAH (Unimpressed)

  I met Crackhead Jesus in Spanish Harlem. Bad breath. Tiny dick.

MILDRED (Snickers)

Obviously, not the same guy. (UNDER HER BREATH) Sluts.

ALICE (Pointing to silent TV, Obama Explains Iran deal, over FOX News Scroll)

Crackhead Jesus is in the White House, paying, unmarked cash, ransom to terrorists.

No one in the room seems to care until the television sparks and ignites a small fire in the room, IN THE GARBAGE CAN BESIDE SLOUCHED HAPPY MALE RESIDENT, SITTING NEAR BIG RED FIRE EXTINGUISHER ON WALL.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT  SPRINGS INTO ACTION BY  TOSSING WHAT’S LEFT OF HIS COCKTAIL INTO BURNING WASTE-BASKET AND PISSING ON FIRE AFTER STRUGGLING TO REALIZE, THE EXPIRED FIRE EXTINGUISHER, DOESN’T WORK.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT TURNS TO SEE A ROOM FULL OF ELDERLY WOMEN STARING BACK AT HIM.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT (Embarrassed)

Excuse me, Ladies, (WINKS) but the bottom of that bucket was quite hot.

THE WOMEN ARE DISGUSTED, AROUSED, AMAZED AND GRATEFUL ALL AT ONCE before FIRE ALARM GOES OFF AND SPRINKLER SYSTEM FILLS ROOM WITH COLD SHOWERS THAT SEND FRANTIC OLD FOLKS, SCRAMBLING FOR COVER.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT MAKES FRONT PAGE OF KINGS POINT ACTIVE ADULT RETIREMENT COMMUNITY NEWSPAPER, UNCENSORED.

HAPPY MALE RESIDENT BECOMES THE TALK OF KINGS POINT AND IS UNANIMOUSLY CAST, BY THE ENTERTAINMENT COMMITTEE, AS THE MALE LEAD IN, “CRACKHEAD JESUS:THE MUSICAL”.

CHAPTER XXIX

[The Caucasian Man, Who Prayed For White Genocide And Ending Free Speech At Berkeley, Meets Elvis, Inside The Bang Kok Spa.]

“Fat shaming is the new racist, you bigot.” Elvis said, to the Gay-White-Male-Berkeley-College-Professor, who was, noticeably offended, by the Bang Kok Spa’s existence, as he swiftly made his way out the door and walked towards St. Charles Avenue moments before Newt Gingrich entered the massage parlor with a great big smile on his face.

“How can I help you, Young Man.” Newt Gingrich said, to the tall, lanky, Professor who stood firmly in the claustrophobic portal.

“Nowadays, someone hands you a fistful of hundreds and they expect you to believe they’re Jesus Christ, if they say so. That weirdo, just gave me this.” The irate Professor said, to Newt Gingrich, while showing off a wad of hundred dollar CHJ bills.”He claimed to be Elvis, looking for Crackhead Jesus, in the BP Miracle.”

“Sounds like you’ll be wanting a shower-massage to celebrate, Mister. Who cares if he claimed to be the Easter Bunny, right?”

“I do.” The Professor noted. “Do you own this place?”

“Sometimes” Newt Gingrich replied.

“Well, one of your mamasan, tried grabbing my genitals.”

Newt Gingrich stayed silent while staring into the disgruntled Berkeley Professor’s eyes, for an awkwardly long time.

“Obviously, you could care less.” The angry Professor said, before reaching for the door to exit into the French Quarter. “It’s people like you and Elvis, that make me pray to Jesus Christ every day, for White genocide.”

“Crackhead Jesus loves assholes, like you, Mister, but I think you’re a cunt!”

I heard Newt Gingrich say, as Mama Massagee gently placed a warm, wet, towel over my naked chest, legs and privates, before leaving the candle lit room, with a wink and a smile, as I moaned, in succulent relief before falling asleep.

CHAPTER XXX

[The Art of The Steal]

EXTERIOR: NYC BROWNSTONE – DAY- SUNNY – SPRING

PIMP, IN PURPLE SUIT, HAT AND SHOES, STANDS ON CORNER BESIDE HIS NEW CADILLAC AND MULTI-COLORED PROSTITUTES DRESSED IN SKIMPY OUTFITS AS YOUNG ARTIST, AGE 4, PAINTS SCENE FROM HIS BEDROOM WINDOW.

INTERIOR: YOUNG ARTIST BEDROOM FILLED WITH CRAYON DRAWINGS, WATERCOLOR PAINTINGS, PENCIL AND INK SKETCHES, SCATTERED ALL OVER FLOOR, BED AND WALLS.

YOUNG ARTIST, IN SHORTS AND ‘DISCO’ T-SHIRT, PUTS LAST STROKE OF WATERCOLOR ON PAPER, BEFORE PUTTING HIS BRUSH DOWN AND RUNNING TO CLOSET.

YOUNG ARTIST PUTS BERET ON HEAD, BEFORE GRABBING SIGN, FOLDING TABLE, FOLDING CHAIR AND BACKPACK.

YOUNG ARTIST GATHERS ARTWORK AND CAREFULLY PUTS IT IN BACKPACK.

INTERIOR: HALLWAY OF BROWNSTONE APARTMENT – SUNLIGHT THROUGH WINDOW NEAR STAIRWELL CAST SHADOW ON YOUNG ARTIST AS HE EXITS APARTMENT CARRYING SIGN, FOLDING TABLE, FOLDING CHAIR AND BACKPACK.

YOUNG ARTIST MAKES HIS WAY DOWN STAIRS SWIFTLY.

EXTERIOR: NYC BROWNSTONE – DAY- SUNNY – SPRING

YOUNG ARTIST SETS UP TABLE AND CHAIR ON CORNER IN FRONT OF PIMP AND PROSTITUTES.

YOUNG ARTIST CAREFULLY DISPLAYS HIS ART ON TABLE IN FRONT OF CURIOUS PIMP AND PROSTITUES BEFORE DISPLAYING LARGE CARDBOARD SIGN READING, ‘ART FOR SALE’, IN FRONT OF HIS PUBLIC EXHIBIT.

PIMP

What’s this, Little Man?

YOUNG ARTIST

My art.

PROSTITUTE #1

Little Picasso.

PIMP

Well, this is my corner, Little Picasso.

PROSTITUTE #2

Buy some art.

PIMP PICKS UP AND ADMIRES WORK OF ART THAT DEPICTS HIM IN ALL HIS PURPLE GLORY BESIDE HIS BIG CAR AND LADIES.

PROSTITUTE #3

That looks like you, Sugar Daddy.

PIMP

And that must be you, Mama, with them big ol’ titties.

PROSTITUTE #3 (FLASHING YOUNG ARTIST)

He got that right.

PROSTITUTE #2

No. Those are mine. (FLASHING YOUNG ARTIST) Ain’t they, Lil’ Picasso?

PROSTITUTE #1

Both you Bitches is whickety-whack. (FLASHING YOUNG ARTIST) These big titties, right here, are what inspired you, ain’t they, Little Picasso.

PIMP

Never mind these Hoes, Picasso. I’ll take everything you got for twenty bucks.

WIDE EYED YOUNG ARTIST WATCHES PIMP SNAP HIS FINGERS AT PROSTITUTE #3, WHO PROCEEDS TO PULL A TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL, FROM BETWEEN HER BUXOM BREASTS.

PIMP TAKES TWENTY AND HANDS IT TO YOUNG ARTIST, AS PROSTITUTE #1 BLOWS HIM A KISS WHILE PROSTITUTE #3 AND PROSTITUTE #2 WINK AT HIM AND SMILE.

YOUNG ARTIST

Thank you.

YOUNG ARTIST GATHERS ARTWORK AND HANDS IT TO PIMP.

PIMP

You’re welcome, Little Man. (HANDS ARTWORK TO PROSTITUTE #3) Now get the fuck out of here, Kid.

YOUNG ARTIST SWIFTLY GATHERS BELONGINGS AND HEADS HOME SNIFFING TWENTY-DOLLAR BILL.

A BRIGHT CARDINAL FLIES PAST THE YOUNG ARTIST AS HE WALKS UP STAIRS WITH HUGE SMILE ON HIS FACE.

INTERIOR: BEDROOM – PLAYFULLY FILLED WITH MATCHBOX CARS, STAR WARS ACTION FIGURES, COMIC BOOKS AND EMPTY WALLS ABOVE PAINT BRUSHES AND ART SUPPLIES.

YOUNG ARTIST, THRILLED, RUNS INTO HIS BEDROOM AND STARTS STICKING HAND MADE PRICE TAGS ON WORKS OF ART, SCULPTURES AND JEWELRY, ALREADY PRODUCED AND WAITING IN THE WINGS DURING MULTI-TASKING MOMENTS IN SAFE CREATIVE SPACE.

YOUNG ARTIST BEGINS TO MANIFEST NEW CREATIONS FROM HIS ACTIVE IMAGINATION, OF THREE COLORFUL MUSES, ON CARDBOARD PAPER, DUCT TAPED TO WALLS.

YOUNG ARTIST USES CURIOUS HOUSEHOLD ITEMS AND STUFF FOUND WHILE WANDERING THE STREETS OF MANHATTAN, ALONE, TO CREATE WORKS OF ART WHILE MEATLOAF’S, ‘BAT OUT OF HELL’ ALBUM SPINS ON HIS RECORD PLAYER.

FLASHBACK:

MEATLOAF’S “PARADISE BY THE DASHBOARD LIGHT” PLAYS THROUGHOUT SCENE.

EXTERIOR: DAY- TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK –  FILLED WITH THEATERS SHOWING GRIND-HOUSE FLICKS AND PORN – STRIP JOINT MARQUEES ADVERTISE LIVE SEX SHOWS, COMEDIANS AND MAGICIANS, OVER COLORFUL PIMPS AND PROSTITUTES BASKING IN THE GLORY OF A COOL SPRING DAY IN MANHATTAN.

YOUNG ARTIST, IN IRON ON T-SHIRT- SHOWCASING ICONIC ‘SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER’ POSTER OF, JOHN TRAVOLTA, IN FAMOUS POSE, FROM CLIMAX DANCE SCENE, STROLLS PAST HIS SURROUNDINGS, NONPLUSSED, RETURNING THE SMILES AND GREETINGS OF ALL THE LIGHT-WORKERS, DISGUISED AS PIMPS AND WHORES, WHO WATCH OVER HIS WALK FROM HIS BABY SITTER’S APARTMENT, TO CLIMB STEPS PAST STATUES OF LIONS, INTO THE NEW YORK CITY PUBLIC LIBRARY, WHERE HE MEETS HIS MOTHER, WHO GREETS HIM WITH A GREAT BIG HUG AND SMILE.

MOTHER (TEARS OF JOY)

Today, Mama is an American Citizen, like you, My Little Picasso.

CHAPTER XXXI

[Jesus Don’t Pay Rent]

EXTERIOR: DAY- OCEANFRONT BEACH HOUSE TROPICAL POOL AREA

MISTER ROGERS (SOAKING WET IN SUIT)

I told you once, don’t make me say it again, Boy.

ARTIST (EXHASPERATED)

Yeah, but, Mister Rogers, you’re not Jesus.

MISTER ROGERS (CONFIDENT)

I’m going to keep telling you, Boy, until it sinks in to your strong-retard-head: Jesus don’t pay rent! To you or anyone.

ARTIST (DIPLOMATIC)

Listen Mister, don’t be a dick. Unless I get footage of you walking across this pool, you know, Bank of America’s not going to believe, that I’m renting to the new Messiah.

MISTER ROGERS

I just did. Weren’t you watching?

ARTIST

Then why are you all wet?

MISTER ROGERS (LEANING IN)

Who, can find a good woman?

ARTIST

What?

MISTER ROGERS

Amongst succubus, you know?

ARTIST

Sir, I’m here to collect your past due rent. We went over this.

MISTER ROGERS (SHAKING HIS WET HEAD)

What do you know about the Doctor?

ARTIST (BACKING AWAY)

I know he’s a Washington insider, living near the Pentagon, who pays rent on time.

MISTER ROGERS (SMACKS HIS TILTED HEAD)

Does he? (POINTING AT ARTIST) Did you know, besides being a philanthropist, he’s also an alleged serial-killer-spinal-surgeon, working for a world famous Christian Hospital in Baltimore?

ARTIST (BACKING AWAY)

I’ve heard rumors.

ARTIST NOTICES GRAFFITI ON FENCE HIDING POOL PUMP EQUIPMENT.

ARTIST (SARCASTIC)

Who wrote fuck on the fence, Jesus?

MISTER ROGERS (LEANING IN)

Look closely. You’ll see, two skinheads on Rogaine, at a Trump rally. Look. (POINTS IMAGE OUT ON FENCE.) One of them is a snowflake. See? And the other has her eyes closed and is wearing a scarf. (LOOSENS TIE.) You’re not a real artist if you can’t see that. You can see that right? It’s obvious. If you can’t see that, you’re a retarded artist from New York City.

ARTIST (FRUSTRATED)

What I see is you destroying my property, Mister Rogers and being way behind on your rent. (PICKS UP CRACK PIPE NEAR FENCE WITH HANDKERCHIEF AND SHOWS IT TO MISTER ROGERS.)  I want you out of my place immediately.

MISTER ROGERS (TILTS HEAD, NONPLUSSED, SLAPS OTHER EAR)

Folks at the top of the political food chain, have been covering up, the good Doctor’s dirty deeds?

ARTIST (BACKING AWAY)

I’m not surprised.

MISTER ROGERS (DROPS SOAKED JACKET ON CHIC LOUNGE CHAIR)

 Manipulating weak press by paying off starving investigative journalists, to look the other way, when it comes to allegations of strange goings on, at a major healthcare institution, that cares for select Veterans and members of the Deep State, in the name of the Lord.

ARTIST

That may be so, Mister Rogers, but I’m not a cop or an exorcist, I’m just here to pick up rent.

MISTER ROGERS (SOAKING WET IN SUIT)

I told you already Kid, Jesus don’t pay rent. (LEANS IN) By the way, you can’t do, what you just threatened me with; not in this State, Boy. This isn’t New York. You’re in the South now. This is Florida. Welcome to the Good Old Boys Club, Meinigga.

WITHOUT WARNING, THUNDER CLAPS AND CLOUDS OPEN, TO SUNSHOWERS THAT POUR RAIN DOWN ON BOTH ARTIST AND MISTER ROGERS AS MRS. ROGERS WITNESSES, FROM BEHIND SLIDING GLASS DOORS, INSIDE HOUSE WITH FOREBODING NEWS REPORTS OF A POSSIBLE CRASHING ECONOMY AND POTENTIAL HOUSING BUBBLE BURST BLASTING THROUGH TV SPEAKERS.

CHAPTER XXXII

[More Sex]

INT: PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 – Bedroom – THUNDER- LIGHTNING FROM STORM OUTSIDE IN DISTANCE OVER OCEAN SUNRISE.

ARTIST lies on SOAKING WET white satin sheets OVER mattress, IN MIDDLE OF ROOM, surrounded by COLORFUL CANDLE FLAMES swaying from OCEAN BREEZE entering through OPEN BALCONY. NAKED, sweat drenched, RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER envelopes NAKED ARTIST WITH HER ESSENCE CREATING A HUMAN COCOON WITH the EBB & FLOW OF THEIR SEXUAL BEING, AS SENSUAL MUSIC PLAYS.

ARTIST (VOICE OVER)

Sex with Renee The Fortune Teller, after she peered into the remains of my coffee, at The Greek Taverna, in Miami Beach, was intense, for so many reasons, not least of which, was her ability to suck personal information out of me, like a Freudian vacuum, with her magic vagina.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (RIDING ARTIST GINGERLY)

Don’t be a crackheadjesus. Resist, persist, insist, enlist, because nobody has the money or guts to pay for proper investigative journalism. (PLACING CLEOPATRA GRIP ON ARTIST.) You will document and record loose ends about serial killers, rogue nuclear sub Captains and corrupt Judges, in a diary of the world on canvas.

ARTIST (LOOKS UP AT RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER AND HEARS THE VOICE OF LARGE MARGE IN HIS HEAD AS HE MATES.)

LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

There’s not enough sex in the movie, I’m not interested.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (RIDING ARTIST HARDER)

You’re overly excited by distractions.

ARTIST (LOOKS UP AT RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER AND HEARS HAUNTING VOICE OF LARGE MARGE IN HIS HEAD AS HE THRUSTS.)

LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

But my Nana in Delray Beach may be interested. She’s from Ukraine.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (LEGS SPREAD LIKE GYMNAST ON BEAM)

You are on the lucky life path.

ARTIST (BLISSFUL)

No kidding.

ARTIST LOOKS UP AT RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER AS SHE SQUATS AND GRINDS HIM WHILE STRETCHING HER ARMS OUT TO HOLD HIS CHEST DOWN WITH HER LONG RED NAILS.

ARTIST REALIZES RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER LOOKS LIKE A BLACK WIDOW CROUCHED OVER HIM WHEN HIS RACING MIND HEARS THE RASPY VOICE OF LARGE MARGE MUNCHING MEAT, WHILE TALKING DIRTY, IN HIS HEAD.

LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

Nana, inherited a shitload of money.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (RHYTHMIC)

I’ve deduced that you are an intelligent seeker of knowledge and truth. You have a charming personality and attitude. You love solitude and tranquility and are scientific, inventive, diligent, meditating and a perfectionist.

ARTIST

You learned all that just now?

 LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

Nana lives in a retirement community.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (SEXY)

You are a deep thinker.

ARTIST

Thank you.

LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

Nana spends her time producing musicals and theater for residents at the local playhouse.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (LEANING IN)

I’m really digging on your spiritual vibration.

ARTIST

Is that what you’re doing?

LARGE MARGE (VOICE OVER)

Maybe she can help you.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (PULLS BACK)

Shall I stop?

ARTIST (THRUSTS)

No! I like what you are doing.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (SLIDES BACK IN)

You are intuitive, psychological, sarcastic, clever, introverted, inflexible, introspective, unusual.

ARTIST (EXCITED)

You think?

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (STUFFING SILK TIE IN ARTIST’S MOUTH)

You are not very concerned about material things and usually quiet.

EYEBALLS MOVE IN PAINTING ABOVE BED AS RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER RESTRAINS ARTIST’S ARMS TO HEADBOARD, USING LEATHER BELTS.

INT: PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 113 – EMPTY Room – THUNDER- LIGHTNING FROM STORM NOW RAGING OUTSIDE.

DOCTOR WATCHES RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER AND ARTIST MAKE LOVE, FROM HOLE IN WALL, IN ROOM OF EMPTY APARTMENT.

INT: PENTHOUSE APARTMENT 111 – Bedroom – THUNDER- LIGHTNING- WIND BLOWS IN FROM STORM OUTSIDE EXTINGUISHING CANDLES AS ARTIST AND FORTUNE TELLER CLIMAX TOGETHER.

RENEE THE FORTUNE TELLER (KISSING ARTIST UNDER EYES OF DOCTOR)

You are psychic.

CHAPTER XXXIII

[Resist. Persist. Insist. Enlist.]

“Art pours out of me, when I hear music. I can’t help it.” I told the Hebrew Hammer, while reaching for a plate of bagels and lox, inside the smoky room, at The Welcome Inn.

“So you’re an outsider artist.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while spreading cream cheese on his gefilte fish.

“Outsider artist?” I said, taking a bagel bite. “I’m at the center of the art world, with kids and teenagers, at concerts, through the Modern Art Music Movement and with jet-setters and hipsters at trend setting nightclubs and hotspots around the world, through graffiti, stickers and modern-art-gonzo-journalism.”

“But art collectors, don’t know you exist, right?”

“They’re busy at Sotheby’s and MOMA.”

“You mean, they’re not trolling eBay and Amazon, for the next Picasso?” The Hebrew Hammer laughed before taking a bite of his meal.

“Snobs and cunts, the lot of them but culture is an industry, Kid. Creativity takes time and my time costs money, so let’s get back to the script, Bruder, because were you not my Goy, on this Sabbath, trust me, you probably couldn’t afford this much of my time. I’m what’s known as, a very busy Jew.” The Hebrew Hammer said, bluntly, while jotting down notes on my script. “Negro Island is next to Chicken Island in Florida. I never knew that.” He laughed, before adding. “Your story is full of non-sequiturs, but I like it.”

“That’s racist, isn’t it?” The Artist asked the Hebrew Hammer, while spreading cream cheese on his toasted sesame bagel.

“Sure, my Goy. So, that’s why you named your art piece Meinigga?”

“No. It’s about Meinigga Qwain Ariana Grande, from Manchester. He was my roommate, at the United States Naval Academy and Meinigga, taught me everything I need to know about black people, during Plebe Summer.”

“I can’t do what you do.” The Hebrew Hammer laughed. “If I got up on stage and started dancing around, painting weird shit, like this, in front of thousands of people, I’d be called a crazy, racist Jew.”

“Racism is ignorance.” I said, after sipping Kosher wine. “People can sense stupidity.”

“Education is important.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before sniffing his goblet with eyes closed.

“I may be self-taught, but, there’s an innate creative impulse, in everyone, to manifest life through art, inspired by the Golden Rule, that enables us all to, shine.” I said, before raising my glass towards the Hebrew Hammer, when he opened his eyes. “We are all artists, Brother, trust your instinct. Flow.”

A sweet sound, full of color and light, energized the dingy room, when our glasses met, in a friendly toast, at The Welcome Inn.

“That’s why I’m in this foxhole with you, Bruder.” The Hebrew Hammer added, while scanning my script. “And my instinct says we should include a Modern Art Music Movement scene in the movie as well, you know, maybe a big Hollywood-musical ending.”

“I suppose.” The Artist said, while contemplating the Hebrew Hammer’s idea, like Auguste Rodin’s, Thinker. “Art, is looking at the world in different ways.”

“What time is your MAMM Jam tomorrow?”

“I’ve got to be on-stage, at rehearsal, at noon.”

“Set an alarm because if you want me to Doctor your script, we’re going to have to pull an all-nighter.”

“I’ll nap while you read.” I said, while slipping back into my sleeping bag on the hard bed. “Wake me, if you wish to brainstorm.”

“Great! You’ll be lucid, like Dali.”

“His best stuff was created in silent lucidity.” I answered before yawning.

“I know, so tell me about the Modern Art Music Movement and how it fits in with Modern Art Gonzo Journalism.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while taking notes on a pad with a sharp pencil.

“So, when I was an elected official, in a small town, a stone throw, from one of the sexiest beaches in the universe, people from all over the world, approached me, all day and night, with troubles, problems and issues. It took me forever, just to walk my dog.” I said, to the Hebrew Hammer, before fading into action packed memories and lucid dreams, at The Welcome Inn.

FLASHBACK:

SUNRISE.

EXTERIOR: GLASS MONOLITH – OCEANFRONT HIGH RISE – MIAMI BEACH

INTERIOR: PENTHOUSE – ELEVATOR WAITING AREA – OSTENTATIOUS DÉCOR

ARTIST, IN BLACK SWEATPANTS AND HOODIE, HOLDS HIS SMALL DOG WHILE WAITING FOR ELEVATOR IN LOBBY SURROUNDED BY MIRRORS.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN IN WHITE SWEAT PANTS AND T-SHIRT THAT READS, “THIS IS MY HORNY LOOK”, APPROACHES THE ARTIST.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (UPSET)

The Doctor tried to rape me.

THE ARTIST’S DOG PULLS BACK HIS TEETH AND GROWLS AT THE BARKING CHIHUAHUA, WHOSE HEAD POPS OUT FROM BETWEEN THE LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN’S BREASTS, AS THE ARTIST PEERS OUT FROM HIS HOODIE WITH BLOODSHOT EYES.

ARTIST (SURPRISED)

Excuse me.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (UPSET)

I stepped out of the shower and he was there.

ARTIST (SURPRISED)

The Doctor?

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (UPSET)

Yes, the Doctor!

ELEVATOR ARRIVES AS LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN REACHES TO PET ARTIST’S SNARLING DOG, WHILE WINKING AT THE ARTIST.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN

I wouldn’t have minded, if it were you, My-Little-Obama.

ELEVATOR DOOR OPENS AND ARTIST SIGNALS FOR LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN TO ENTER FIRST, WHILE BOTH DOGS GROWL AND SHOW TEETH.

ARTIST

I’m not Black.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN

Neither’s Obama, his Mama’s White.

ELEVATOR DOOR CLOSES

INTERIOR: ELEVATOR FILLED WITH OFFENSIVE GRAFFITI ETCHED INTO MIRRORS AND SPRAY PAINTED ON WALLS.

ARTIST (CONCERNED)

Did you tell police?

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (FLIPPANT)

By the time cops came, the Doctor was gone.

ARTIST

What do you want me to do?

THE ELEVATOR STOPS ON NEXT FLOOR AND GRAFFITI COVERED DOORS BEGIN TO OPEN.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (RAISED BROW)

I want you to keep your eyes on the Doctor.

THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN TO WELCOME BLONDE MUSE WHO WALKS IN WITH HER SMALL DOG. ALL DOGS BEGIN TO GROWL AS ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSE.

BLONDE MUSE (IRATE)

Can you please let the Doctor know that Rule of Law states, at least twenty-four-hour notice is needed before entering someone’s apartment? He came in, just as I was about to get in the shower.

ARTIST (SURPRISED)

I’m sorry. I had no idea.

DOGS GROWL, THEN SUDDENLY BECOME SILENT, AS ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSE AND CABLES BEGIN TO CREAK DURING WOBBLY DECENT. EVERYONE IN THE ELEVATOR LOOKS UP AS METAL SQUEAKS, RATTLES and CABLES SQUEAL.

ELEVATOR FREE-FALLS SIX FLOORS BEFORE STALLING SAFELY ON THE TWENTY-THIRD FLOOR.

EVERYONE BRACES, SCREAMS AND HOWLS BEFORE ADJUSTING THEMSELVES IN EMBARRASSMENT AND FEAR AFTER FREE-FALL.

DOGS WHIMPER AS ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN.

ATTRACTIVE, FIT, HISPANIC, YOUNG MAN, IN TANK TOP AND TIGHT SHORTS, WALKS IN, HOLDING HIS BULLDOG.

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN (HIGH VOICE, HEAVY ACCENT)

Good morning, Ladies. (TURNS TO ARTIST) Good day, Sir.

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN AND HIS BULLDOG WINK SIMULTANEOUSLY AT THE EXASPERATED, HEAVY-BREATHING, AWKWARD-LOOKING GROUP OF PASSENGERS AND PETS, AS ELEVATOR DOORS CLOSE, SLOWLY, BEHIND THEM.

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN (PISSY)

Excuse me, Mister Mayor. Can you tell the President he no can come in my place when Papa not home?

ARTIST (SINCERE)

I will. I’m sorry.

ARTIST REACHES FOR EMERGENCY BUTTON. HIS HAND IS SWIFTLY SWATTED AWAY BY LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN (BLUNT)

Oh, no, you don’t. I’m wearing diapers, the dog isn’t.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN POINTS AT GROWLING CHIHUAHUA, SHIVERING BETWEEN HER BUXOM BREASTS.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN

Tell the Doctor to clean up and fix these elevators, too! I’m sick and tired of this crap!

BLONDE MUSE (IRATE)

Me too and I, seriously feel like, the Doctor is watching me, while I shower.

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN (HYPERVENTILATING)

Me too! I’m terrified to walk my dog, because of these broken elevators. Aye, Dios mio, Señor Mayor, help us!

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN FANS HIMSELF AND HIS DOG AS BOTH BEGIN TO SALIVATE AND SQUIRM WITHIN EVERYONE’S PERSONAL SPACE.

ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN (SCARED)

 I think I’m claustrophobic.

WITHIN TIGHT CONFINES, ALL DOGS GROWL AND HOWL AS PEOPLE IN ELEVATOR SQUIRM DURING SLOW DECENT, UNTIL A RASP IS HEARD AND ALL BECOMES DEATHLY SILENT WITHIN THE STALLED METAL CUBE.

A HARSH GRATING NOISE LEADS TO SCREAMS AND HOWLS FROM EVERY LIVING THING INSIDE THE ELEVATOR AS IT PLUMMETTS SEVEN STORIES BEFORE COMING TO A SAFE STOP ON THE TENTH FLOOR.

DOORS OPEN AND THE ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MAN RUNS OUT WITH HIS BULLDOG, PERMEATING STRONG TRACES OF FEAR, THROUGHOUT THE WOBBLY ELEVATOR AFTER BOTH MAN AND HIS BEST FRIEND DEFICATE AND URINATE ALL OVER THEMSELVES, LEAVING DARK, SLIMY TRAILS TO THE STAIRWELL.

OLD BLACK MAN, STANDING OUTSIDE ELEVATOR, LOOKS AT DISHEVELED GROUP OF PASSENGERS AND PETS, ALL STARING DOWN AT THE HOT MESS, LEFT TO MATURE, ON THE UNKEMPT ELEVATOR FLOOR.

OLD BLACK MAN ENTERS ELEVATOR STEPPING OVER HOT MESS, HOLDING A BLACK BRIEFCASE, OUT OF WHICH A PANTING PUG’S HEAD EMERGES AND STARTS LICKING ARTIST’S EXPOSED WRIST.

OBLIVIOUS TO HIS DOG’S ACTION, THE OLD BLACK MAN STARES DOWN THE LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN, WHO STARES BACK, UNFLUSTERED, WITH A RAISED EYEBROW.

LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN

Feeling lucky, Your Honor?

OLD BLACK MAN SHAKES HIS HEAD BEFORE PRESSING THE LOBBY BUTTON.

ELEVATOR CABLES SCRAPE AND GRIND AS THE ELEVATOR DESCENDS QUIETLY.

SILENCE IS BROKEN BY SOUND OF METAL RUBBING AGAINST METAL AND LOW GROWLING, AS LIGHTS FLICKER INSIDE THE CROWDED ELEVATOR.

ELEVATOR FREE-FALLS PAST TWO STORIES BEFORE GRINDING TO A HALT.

PASSENGERS SWAY TO AND FRO, IN LIFT, DANGLING BETWEEN FLOORS, OF ELEVATOR SHAFT .

LIGHTS GO OUT INSIDE ELEVATOR.

DOGS HOWL AND WHINE AS PANIC GRADUALLY CONSUMES PASSENGERS LISTENING TO THE JARRING SOUND OF SQUEALING METAL AGAINST CONCRETE WHILE CABLES COIL AND COLLIDE, CREATING SPARKS.

ELEVATOR TUMBLES TO LOBBY, IN FITS-OF-FREE-FALL-TERROR, WITHIN SHEER DARKNESS OF SPACE, FOR A TIGHT GROUP OF NEIGHBORS.

INTERIOR: GRAND VIEW PALACE GROUND FLOOR LOBBY – MORNING

CHANDELIERS ILLUMINATE BRIGHT RED, “OUT OF SERVICE”, SIGNS AND BRIGHT YELLOW, “CAUTION”, TAPE ON ALL ELEVATOR DOORS EXCEPT FOR THE ONE, FROM WHICH ALL TERRIFIED PASSENGERS AND PETS EXIT SWIFTLY.

ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN SHINING LIGHT ON DISHEVELED PASSENGERS WHO SCURRY OUT INTO THE GROUND FLOOR LOBBY, PAST THE SECURITY DESK AND OUT THE FRONT DOOR, ONTO A BUSY SIDEWALK.

ARTIST (TO SECURITY GUARD)

Tell the Doctor, none of the elevators are working, again!

EXTERIOR – DAY – BUSY FRONT ENTRANCE TO HIGH RISE BUILDING WITH VALET.

ARTIST AND HIS DOG JOIN GROUP OF PET OWNERS HUDDLED AROUND FIRST BIG TREE OUTSIDE ENTRANCE.

BLONDE MUSE

The Doctor’s trying to kill us.

ARTIST (LOOKING AT OLD BLACK MAN)

Elevators are twenty times safer than escalators.

OLD BLACK MAN SHAKES HIS HEAD BEFORE WALKING OFF IN OPPOSITE DIRECTION OF LARGE ELDERLY WOMAN, WHO WALKS OFF IN DISGUST.

BLONDE MUSE (GRABS ARTIST’S CHIN)

He’s got you amped on stats and fake news.

ARTIST (NOTICES DOCTOR STARING AT HIM FROM THIRD FLOOR BALCONY)

Elevators are safer than cars.

BLONDE MUSE (TURNING TO SEE WHAT DISTRACTS ARTIST)

I know (PAUSES THEN DOES A DOUBLE TAKE BEFORE LOOKING BACK AT ARTIST) We had sex, before you gave everyone that speech, full of statistics about elevator safety, at the Town Hall Meeting, remember?

FLASHBACK

INTERIOR- PENTHOUSE APARTMENT – ARTISTS BEDROOM- SUNRISE

LARGE NUDE PAINTING OF BLONDE MUSE RESTS ON EASEL BESIDE COLORFUL PAINT CANS, BRUSHES, FLOWERS, EMPTY BOTTLES OF WINE AND GLASSES.

ARTIST AND BLONDE MUSE REST IN A COMFORTABLE EMBRACE ON BED AFTER COPULATING. THEY STARE AT THE NUDE PORTRAIT OF BLONDE MUSE IN SUNLIGHT.

BLONDE MUSE (CURIOUS)

I see Saint Michael and the fiery chalice, but… (PAUSES) Why is my head cut off?

ARTIST

I ran out of room. (GIVES HER A PLAYFUL NOOGIE)

BLONDE MUSE (NOT BUYING IT)

You fucked up, is, what it is. (SLAPPING ARTISTS FRISKY HANDS OFF HER CHEST.)

ARTIST (TICKLING)

Your head’s too big, it didn’t fit on the canvas.

BLONDE MUSE (STILL NOT BUYING IT)

My big head? Mmm-hmmm. Don’t give me that shit. My titties distracted you. (POINTS IN WONDER AT BLACK ORBS BEING REFLECTED BY SUN, UNDER BLACK CROSSES ON PAINTING) Look how big you made them.

ARTIST STARES AT FIERY-RED ENERGY EMANATING FROM VIOLET CHALICE IN PAINTING, NEXT TO GLOWING ORBS.

ARTIST AND THE BLONDE MUSE TURN TO LOOK AT EACH OTHER.

ARTIST STARES INTO THE BLONDE MUSE’S EYES LONG ENOUGH FOR SPARKS TO FLY.

THE BLONDE MUSE GRABS BACK OF ARTIST’S HEAD AND SHOVES IT DOWN TOWARDS HER CHEST WHILE HE BARELY RESISTS, BEFORE PLOWING HIS FACE INTO HER BUXOM BREASTS WITH AN OPEN-MOUTHED SMILE.

BLONDE MUSE (PLAYFULLY RESISTING)

Stop it, they’re not that big, you fucking baby!

ARTIST (FONDLING)

They’re beautiful.

BLONDE MUSE WRESTLES ARTIST, CAUSING CELL PHONE TO FALL OFF NIGHTSTAND AND REVEAL TIME.

ARTIST (PANICKED)

Oh my God! The Town Hall Meeting. I completely forgot. (JUMPS OUT OF BED AND RUNS TO BATHROOM.) I’m so late.

BLONDE MUSE (CONCERNED)

Oh, no! Is there some way I can help?

ARTIST (FROM BATHROOM)

Yes, can you pick a suit out for me? I’m supposed to be the opening speaker, like half an hour ago. Holy shit, this is not good.

BLONDE MUSE HEARS CRASH ON OTHERS SIDE OF DRYWALL BEHIND HEADBOARD AND FEELS A PUSH AGAINST HER BACK THAT PROPELS HER BODY FORWARD IN BED.

BLONDE MUSE TURNS TO LOOK AT TILTED PAINTING ABOVE HEADBOARD.

BLONDE MUSE (STARTLED)

Did you hear that?

INTERIOR- BATHROOM – WELL LIT – CLEAN – MENS AND WOMENS TOILETRIES

STEAM FILLS BATHROOM AS ARTIST SHAVES IN SHOWER.

 ARTIST (SHAVING)

I can’t hear you, Babe.

INTERIOR- ARTISTS BEDROOM

BLONDE MUSE SITS UP ON BED AND BEGINS TO LOOK BEHIND PAINTING ABOVE HEADBOARD.

INTERIOR- BATHROOM –

ARTIST SHUTS OFF SHOWER AND HEARS A THUD NEXT DOOR AFTER PIPES SETTLE.

INTERIOR- ARTISTS BEDROOM

BLONDE MUSE IS JOLTED AWAY FROM WALL, BEFORE INSPECTING WHAT IS GOING ON BEHIND PAINTING OVER HEADBOARD, BY A BURST OF ENERGY THAT IMPACTS THE DRYWALL IN FRONT OF HER WITH A LOUD BANG.

BLONDE MUSE (SCARED)

Oh, my God! What was that?

INTERIOR- BATHROOM –

ARTIST OPENS SHOWER DOOR AND REACHES FOR TOWEL, OBLIVIOUS TO BLONDE MUSE’S FEAR IN NEXT ROOM, HE BEGINS DRYING OFF FRANTICALLY.

ARTIST (URGENT)

I’m so late! Did you pick out a suit for me to wear, Babe?

INTERIOR- ARTISTS BEDROOM –

PAINTING ABOVE HEADBOARD SWIVELS BACK AND FORTH BEFORE STOPPING.

BLONDE MUSE BACKS AWAY FROM WALL AND TOWARDS CLOSET.

INTERIOR- ARTISTS ORGANIZED CLOSET – WELL LIT

BLONDE MUSE SIFTS THROUGH ARTIST’S COLLECTION OF CUSTOM TAILORED SUITS AND SHIRTS.

ON FLOOR, NEXT TO ITALIAN LEATHER SHOES, THE BLONDE MUSE READS A NEWSPAPER HEADLINE THAT SCREAMS:

“SERIAL-KILLER-SPINAL-SURGEON OR PHILANTHROPIC MAD-GENIUS: WHO IS, MERCY HOSPITAL’S CONTROVERSIAL NEW, HEAD OF ORTHOPEDIC SURGERY, AT THE SPINE CLINIC, NEAR NATION’S CAPITAL?”

EXTERIOR – DAY – BUSY FRONT ENTRANCE TO HIGH RISE BUILDING.

BLONDE MUSE CATCHES FLEETING DARK SHADOWS, BLOWING SHEER WHITE CURTAINS, THROUGH WIND, ON THIRD-FLOOR CORNER BALCONY, BEFORE RETURNING HER INTENSE GAZE, DEEP INTO THE ARTIST’S SOULFUL EYES UNDER BIG TREE.

BLONDE MUSE (FRUSTRATED)

Elevators can kill people. (SIGHS) I know, probability of death and accident statistics are low, but…

BLONDE MUSE GRABS ARTISTS CHIN AND TURNS HIS GAZE AWAY FROM BOTH OF THEIR DOGS, LEAVING HUGE PILES OF RELIEF ON THE GROUND, IN FRONT OF THEM.

BLONDE MUSE (SERIOUS)

Admit, it happens.

ARTIST (COY)

I admit, shit happens. (SMIRKS) Most people who die in elevators are elevator technicians.

BLONDE MUSE (UNAMUSED)

And you can jump before impact, right, you know that’s such bullshit, don’t you? (GRABS ARTIST’S HAND.) Like the story of the woman, who survived a seventy-five-floor, elevator freefall, from the Empire State Building, after it was hit by an airplane.

ARTIST (DEFENSIVE)

It’s true. Look it up.

BLONDE MUSE

You want to know what’s not fake news around here, Mister President, the fact that there’s a woman in critical condition, at the emergency room, right now, because of faulty elevators in this building, that you were elected to secure and command.

ARTIST (FRUSTRATED)

I’m not the owner. I’m the President.

BLONDE MUSE (STERN)

Whatever your title, fix it.

ARTIST (ARMS OUT)

It’s not that easy. This isn’t a democracy.

BLONDE MUSE (RUNNING FINGERS UP ARTISTS ARM)

I trust your instinct. You seem to have some common sense and ability.

ARTIST (SCANNING FOR WITNESSES)

Thanks, I’m trying.

BLONDE MUSE

I know you are. (WINKS AT ARTIST) Try harder, you little prick. (LAUGHS NERVOUSLY AS SHE LOOKS OVER HER SHOULDER AND FEELS THE DOCTOR’S EYES, ON HER BACK, FROM A THIRD-FLOOR CORNER UNIT, NESTLED IN A FOREST OF HI-RISE TOWERS ALONG THE BEACH.)

ARTIST REMOVES PLASTIC BAGS FROM HIS SWEATSHIRT POCKET.

BLONDE MUSE (EMBARRASSED)

Oh, my God! I forgot a poop bag. (POUTS) Could you please?

ARTIST MAKES AWKWARD EXPRESSION BEFORE BENDING OVER TO PICK UP THEIR PET’S WASTE.

BLONDE MUSE (EXCITED)

What a rush though, huh? Riding those elevators. Pure adrenaline, like Tower of Terror, but for real. (SCRATCHES ARTISTS BACK) Makes me horny. Let’s fuck later.

PHONE RINGS AS ARTIST PICKS UP LAST PIECE OF FECES FOR BOTH ANIMALS.

BLONDE MUSE (RUSHING OFF)

Thanks. I’ll let you go. I’m running late. (SHOUTS) Call me tonight.

THE DOCTOR’S IMAGE POPS UP ON THE ARTIST’S CELL PHONE AFTER HE DISCARDS BAG IN PUBLIC GARBAGE CAN BESIDE TREE.

ARTIST ANSWERS PHONE VERY UPSET, LOOKING TOWARDS THIRD FLOOR CORNER APARTMENT.

ARTIST (LOOKING UP)

People think you are a serial killer.

DOCTOR (VOICE OVER)

Paranoid insurgents.

ARTIST (ANGRY)

I’m starting to think so too! What’s going on with the elevators?

DOCTOR (VOICE OVER)

Patience. Ecarlisle@jmd.usdoj.gov. Elisabeth Carlisle, AG Loretta Lynch. Win the people over, with statistics and facts, my lawyers will take care of the rest, Boy. Resist, persist, insist, enlist.

ARTIST (FRUSTRATED)

What you’re feeding people is lies, through me, Doc and I’m not cool with that, I’m not down with that at all. Fake polls and stats can’t calm terror forever.

DOCTOR (VOICE OVER)

Don’t be fooled.

ARTIST (Pragmatic)

Starving people’s patience doesn’t last forever.

DOCTOR (VOICE OVER)

Tell sheeple the same lie over and over and they start believing it as truth.

ARTIST (Firm)

That’s propaganda. Nobody wants to enlist in your corrupt army, Doc.

DOCTOR (Moaning V. O.)

The Blonde gets off on it.

ARTIST SEES DOCTOR LOOKING DOWN ON HIM THROUGH BINOCULARS FROM THIRD FLOOR CORNER UNIT.

DOCTOR (Moaning V. O.)

She has rape fantasies about me.

ARTIST (LOOKING UP AT DOCTOR)

Did you hear anything I said?

INTERIOR: THIRD FLOOR CORNER UNIT – EMPTY,  EXCEPT FOR LARGE, HAND-CARVED, ANTIQUE, WOODEN DESK WITH SPEAKER MODE ANDROID ON TOP OF THE WELL WORN WOOD- STERILIZED – WHITE WALLS, CARPET AND DRAPES.

DOCTOR, NAKED, WATCHES FROM BEHIND DESK, THROUGH BINOCULARS AS BLONDE MUSE RETURNS TO BUILDING ENTRANCE IN A RUSH with DOG ON LEASH.

DOCTOR (MOANING INTO SPEAKER-PHONE)

Have you fucked her, yet?

ARTIST (V.O. disgusted)

You’re sick, Doc. Get help.

DOCTOR WATCHES THROUGH BINOCULARS AS BLONDE MUSE BLOWS A KISS AT ARTIST AND WAVES HELLO WHILE HAPPILY APPROACHING HIM FOR A HUG.

EXTERIOR – DAY – BUSY FRONT ENTRANCE TO HIGH RISE BUILDING.

ARTIST TAKES PHONE OFF SPEAKER AND HOLDS IT TO HIS EAR, AS DOGS BARK THROUGHOUT TWO CONVERSATIONS GOING ON AT ONCE, BETWEEN ARTIST, DOCTOR AND BLONDE MUSE.

DOCTOR (Moaning V. O.)

She’s a squirter.

BLONDE MUSE (FRAZZLED)

I’m so freaked out from our free fall, I forgot to take this little monster home.

DOCTOR (Moaning V. O.)

She’s such an absented minded ditz.

BLONDE MUSE (HANDS LEASH TO ARTIST)

Could you please?

ARTIST (AWKWARD)

Yes.

BLONDE MUSE (Flirty whisper)

You still have my key, right?

DOCTOR (V.O.)

Chess at my Penthouse, tonight, sunset, if you wish? We can speak about things then. (PAUSES) I’ll take care of the elevator company in the meantime.

ARTIST (AWKWARD)

Yes.

ARTIST HOLDS LEASHES OF GROWLING DOGS SNIFFING EACH OTHER OUT AS BLONDE MUSE KISSES HIM ON THE LIPS AND DOCTOR HANGS UP PHONE.

SECURITY GUARD, VALET AND RESIDENTS EXITING BUILDING, STARE AT ARTIST WITH ALL SORTS OF LOOKS, AS BLONDE MUSE RUSHES OFF, UNDER THE DOCTOR’S WATCHFUL EYES, IN THE SKY.

CHAPTER XXXIV

[Meinigga Qwain Ariana Grande From Manchester]

“I like the part, with Rene the Fortune Teller but I’m almost done with the script and there’s only one sex scene.” Large Marge said, matter-of-factly, before adding, “These A.D.D. kids and porn: We’re gonna need to add a lot more sex, if you want to keep their attention.” She said, while licking globs of rice pudding from her wrists, with seductive eyes, as we sat for a snack, before nightfall, in the porch of her home, near Plum Island.

“Your nephew was more interested in the Naval Academy story.” I responded between bites of turkey smothered in salty mashed potatoes and gravy. “He liked the Meinigga character.”

“Meinigga, are you serious?” Large Marge laughed. “Don’t listen to my nephew. He thinks he’s a doctor.” Her guffaw manifested a coughing fit that made her eyes teary and red, before she continued speaking, through gasps of breath and chuckles. “Mr. Script Doctor.” She coughed and nearly fell over before stabilizing herself enough to say, “My Nephew’s no Doctor, he’s just a poor Jew.” Adjusting her chest, she added, “Actually, he’s an artist and artists don’t make any money, you know that, Kid.”

“That’s not true.” I said, while watching Large Marge circle the outside of her areola, with her giant, pierced-tongue, before plopping her left breast, back into her colorful moo-moo dress, with a devilish smile.

“Very few. Less than five percent.” Large Marge argued, bluntly, with facts and a smirk. “Look, I’m the JAP with the Louis Vuitton purse and cash money, Baby. He’s just the guy who sent you here and now, I’m the gal who’s going to give you the best blow job of your life.” Large Marge said, pushing her chair back and rising from the table like a  wide receiver.

“Are you kidding?” I said, placing my napkin on the table and pushing my chair in tight.

“I don’t kid about blow jobs, Kid.” Large Marge said, as she rumbled towards me.

“What about your husband?” I exclaimed.

“I gave him one this morning. He’s out fishing. He could care less if I blow you, Kid. We’re in an open relationship.”

“Really?” I said, in wonder, of what that life was like.

“He’d rather watch but if he walks in, don’t worry, he won’t OJ you or anything, he’ll probably just jerk off on my face.” Large Marge said, while standing over me with a big grin.

“Can we get back to the script please?” I blushed.

“You sure? You seem kind of uptight. A blow job would really help, I think.” Large Marge said, while grabbing the back of my chair and yanking on it roughly.

“Thanks but I really want to get back to talking about financing for the script.” I said, while gripping wood to hold Large Marge back.

“Your loss, Kid.” Large Marge said, as she loosened her hold, on the back of my chair.  “From where I’m standing, the problem is your script. I’m telling you, I see this more as a musical.”

“How can you possibly see, Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, as a musical?” I said, without loosening my tight grip, under the table.

“I can’t, but I bet you, my Nana can.” Large Marge said, as she walked towards the sunken living room holding two huge dill pickles in each catcher’s mitt sized fist. “I’m done talking about your movie, Kid. All this talk about blow jobs, has made me wet.” She grabbed the remote control from atop the fireplace and said, “I’m going to jerk off on the sofa, in front of Brian Williams. He’s the sexiest liar I know. I fucked him when I worked for the Baer on Wall Street.”

Large Marge took a moment to relish in the sweet memory of Brian Williams feeding her candy and telling her lies on the desk of Baer Stern’s C.E.O. right before Wall Street collapsed under the heavy weight of all the bullshit, that shuddered her into a massive orgasm that weak kneed her onto the couch with a thunderous thud, that made the wooden floor creak and groan while the house shook.

“You’re welcome to watch, the news,”, She said, making air-quotation-marks while holding big pickles in her huge hands, before winking at me coquettishly, while whispering, “If you wish, of course.”

“Are you serious?” I said, with trepidation.

“Precious, Boy, I’m going to send you over to my Nana’s place, in The Villages, a retirement community in Florida, that’s larger than Manhattan and full of horny GILF’s, eager to finance pipe dreams, for young studs like you.” Large Marge said, while hoisting up her moo-moo dress on the wide, worn, brown-leather couch.

“Honey, I’m home.” Large Marge’s husband said, with a great big smile, as he walked through the screened patio door, holding all sorts of big fish on a line.

“If you want me to finance your movie, you’ll have to find a place for my husband and I in your script.” Large Marge said, staring into my eyes, while she stroked her strawberry patch gently, in front of her husband and I.

“I thought I’d come in and find your lips wrapped around the Artist’s fat cock, Sweetheart.” Large Marge’s husband said, with deadpan delivery, while holding up a twenty-pound, striped bass, at the end of another fishing line. “Look what I caught for desert, Mama.”

“Preferably a sex scene.” Large Marge said, while winking at me as her hands twitched frantically, under her dress. “Kinky. Machine-sex.”

“Meinigga from Manchester?” Large Marge’s husband said, looking down at my script next to the Pumpkin pie. “That’s racist.”

“No it’s not.” I said, without looking away from Large Marge, pleasuring herself in front of MSNBC’s lead anchor. while he peddled propaganda to weak minds, in favor of the military industrial complex and corporate greed, to manifest a modern civil war in America, fueled by misinformation and lack of public trust, in order to boost ratings and revenue for stock holders.

“The hell it ain’t!” Large Marge’s husband said, while slapping me on the back, with clammy hands that smelled like fish.“Sounds like the n-word to me, Boy.” He laughed. “And I don’t mean naughty or nice.”

“It’s a person’s name, a character, Meinigga Qwain Ariana Grande, from Manchester, New Hampshire.” I said, as Large Marge rose from the couch and thundered towards me beaming.

“A black person.” Her Husband asked, shaking his waist like a Polynesian dancer, as his Wife approached the table, with a twinkle in her eye. “A negro.”

“Yes, but he’s a dark-skinned Indo-European-African-American with elite pedigree.” I said, as Large Marge’s husband sat next to me with arms crossed. “He’s the illegitimate love-child, of a prominent German Nordic Caucasian Father and Royal African-Queen Mother.”

“Shegetz! That’s racist.” Large Marge said, catching me off-guard from behind and French-kissing me on the lips and cheek, with her tongue. “Like, Negro Island, next to Chicken Island, in Florida.”

“But…” I said, wiping my face, with wide eyes, as Large Marge took a seat, across from her husband, while laughing and twirling her long brown hair.

“So tell me about this racist character.” Large Marge’s husband said, as his wife began to curl her manicured-red, fat, toes, around his hairy, inner-thigh, under the heavy wooden table, as I recalled an episode at the world-famous, leadership laboratory, near Washington D.C.

CHAPTER XXXV

[Pickle Buffers At Bancroft Hall]

Darkness filled my being, within the largest single dormitory in the world, when I heard a manly scream from down the p-way in Bancroft Hall, shortly after midnight, before The Awakening.

“Do you here that, Meinigga?” I asked my African-American roommate, in the dead of night, as a commotion arose nearby.

“Crazy white folk.” Meinigga, whispered under crisp white sheets. “Mind your business, Cuz.”

“You grabbed my fucking nut-sack!” I heard someone from my Platoon holler, in betrayal, while peaking from under my pillow, at shadows on the bulkhead.

“Keep your voice down, Soldier.” I heard another voice whisper, with a command that echoed through the hallowed halls of historic leadership training as Plebes wrestled with nightmares and broken dreams, in their own private Idaho, during Summer indoctrination.

“You’re a fucking fag! You tried grabbing my balls, you fucking queer!”

“I thought you were gay.”

“The fuck, why?”

“You’re always jacking off, in the bed next to me! You think I can’t hear you?”

“What the fuck is going on in here with you Plebe pussies?” I heard the Master Gunnery Sergeant shout, as his overwhelming presence entered the immediate area and echoed through the chambers of Bancroft Hall.

“Both of you pickle-polishing pansies, get your gay asses down to the Commandants office, now!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant, nicknamed, “Blackzilla”, by terrified Plebes, shouted, for the whole world to hear, before adding, quietly enough to be intimidating, “The rest of you, snowflake faggots, go back to sleep, this was all just a dream, go back to your nightmares, you motherfucking Plebes. I don’t want to hear a peep from any of you.” The Master Gunnery Sergeant paused. “You got that Meinigga?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!” My roommate shouted, from underneath his covers.

“What did I just say, you, dumb, fuck?”

“Not a peep, Sir!” Meinigga shouted, lifting his head out of the covers like a turtle.

“That’s right, Meinigga, not a peep.” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted, before taking loud footsteps towards the stairwell.

Meinigga watched, with wide eyes as I struggled to stifle my laughter. Our other room-mate, Donald Trump Jr., a blue-blooded white-boy, who had never seen a black person in real life, until his arrival at the Naval Academy, failed to mute his nervous howl, before the colossal Master Gunnery Sergeant exited our Platoon.

“And that goes for your roommates too!” The Master Gunnery Sergeant shouted, before walking down stairs. “Don’t think I can’t hear you faggots laughing in there. I got my eyes on you boys. I’ll be back for all three of your sorry asses later.”

Donald Trump Jr. was from a small town, with a population of 135, in Iowa, nicknamed, “Luxembourg in America”, called, Saint Donatus, where men like Blackzilla were only urban legend and myth.

CHAPTER XXXVI

[If Jesus Were Alive Today]

COMING SOON: Check back to this post on www.victorhugocollection.com for more chapters, updated periodically, in anticipation of the modern-art-graphic-novel release, in limited-edition, at select stores and on eBay.

• This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KN8SIigY8TI

“Diversity of thought is under attack. Free your mind.” – Victor-Hugo Vaca II

THE CHARACTER YOU LOVE TO HATE IS RESURRECTED, IN ONE OF ART HISTORIES MOST CONTENTIOUS SAGA’S; TITLED, “Redemption: The Story Of The Crackhead Jesus Trials – Part II – The Second Coming Of The Three Muses.”© By Victor-Hugo Vaca II.

“Redemption: The Story Of The Crackhead Jesus Trials – Part II: The Second Coming Of The Three Muses.”©

By Victor-Hugo Vaca II.

© 2017 Victor-Hugo Vaca II All rights reserved.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  – John 1:5

CRACKHEADJESUS/CRACK-HEAD JESUS/ krak-hed jee-zuh z/ (noun) 1. a contemptibly obnoxious person, jerk 2. a person who indulges in hypocrisy, hypocrite 3. a person or force seen as opposing Christ, Antichrist, a person or thing regarded as supremely evil or as a fundamental enemy or opponent, devil, satan.

Prelude:

“Somewhere in time.“- VHVII

CHAPTER I

[Spiders]

Evil surrounded me in my restless slumber, when a bitter cold washed over me, as I felt my soul currency, being filled, with light and love. At that moment, I found myself lying in a room full of spiders: Tarantulas, actually and they weren’t biting or crawling over me, they simply surrounded me, swaying and pulsating, like a hairy mob, in a dense room with no furniture, windows, or doors.

“I am that I am.” An unfamiliar voice seeped into my subconscious, while I wrestled with familiar dreams and nightmares.

The throbbing ceiling and glossed walls were painted stark white, in contrast to the rose haired tarantulas that encircled my position at the center of the square room. The ominous murmuration of arachnids manifested a strangely sensual, ebb and flow of rhythmic color that danced along the floor towards my naked body.

“The debt of a man’s soul is paid by his children.” A Stranger’s voice floated into my eardrums, through wind gusts created by the sound of billions of spider hairs crashing into each other.

“Think Seven Generations forward in compassionate wealth.” The Voice carried over the maddening sound of infinite flexible spider limbs crunching, crawling and moving swiftly, within earshot of my consciousness, manifested in reality.

“Do not be a Crackheadjesus.” The Voice added five words, that echoed like blasphemy in a house of hypocrites, piercing through the noise of countless spiders and settling into the pit of my being, like acid rain.

“Blasphemy!” A Devil shouted through the madness, as a thousand spider hairs tickled my toes.

“Make sure the Witches of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich fail to manifest George Orwell’s ‘1984’ in reality. One plus one does not equal three.” The prophetic words of a stranger, who introduced himself as, Crackhead Jesus, thrust me into a full-blown nightmare, while I pushed against an ethereal heaviness, that kept me pinned to sweat drenched sheets on a dirty mattress. A bright, blinding, light then flashed into my petrified, wide-open eyes, as I struggled, without strength, to wake up.

“You just got hit by a Mack truck, Maggot!” Pressure in the room was palpable, when the voice of Crackhead Jesus tapped into my steel, fiber of being.

“I will let you live as long as you do what I tell you.” The moment Crackhead Jesus threatened my life, from behind the bright light, I felt a sharp, cold, metal blade, on my bulging, neck-vein.

His words breathed deep into my soul and lingered, like bittersweet memories of lost love in a toxic relationship.

“Kill your roommate!” Crackhead Jesus shouted, at me, with fierce command, as I was held down, by an ethereal burden, that refused to release my soul into the waking state. “Do you understand, you worthless, Maggot?”

I lay silent, without moving or breathing, while praying for the nightmare to end, as I listened for what seemed like an eternity, to my frail roommate cry and moan, in extreme physical agony and mental pain, while being mercilessly beaten with socks full of quarters and pummeled with venomous words, repeatedly, within inches of his life and arms-length of my reach.

“And you were never at the keg party!” Crackhead Jesus added, as I gasped for air against the razor-sharp blade that nicked my tender Adam’s apple. “You never saw me! Do you understand? You, Bon-Jovi-faggot!”

“Help!” My assaulted roommate begged, while bawling, repeatedly, from inches away, as I struggled to survive, under the heavy burden, pushed down upon my fiber of being, by toxic supervision, at the world-famous leadership laboratory, in Annapolis, Maryland.

“If you say my name, you are a dead man. Accidents happen on Aircraft Carriers, you know: You may, unwittingly, get sucked into a fighter jet engine. Your spic and Spanish body parts will be mopped up, swept overboard and feed fish; while the Captain, makes sure your parents get a nicely-folded-flag, in honor of your service, you worthless, piece-of-shit!” Crackhead Jesus’ words, took my breath away, with a vengeance, that suppressed me from uttering anything, as I lay, helpless, within soaking wet, white, satin, sheets, that enveloped my shivering, naked, body, like a cocoon, trapped in a dream, filled with undulating spiders.

Just then, a solitary Black Widow spider gently made its way across my pale, petrified face and whispered into my throbbing ear, “Pray you flow. Flow and you will pray for more.”

I tried desperately to wake up and escape the nightmare but the dense heaviness kept my body immobile, with tribally tattooed arms, outstretched, like Jesus on a cross.  I felt the hands of the Devil, deep inside me, trying to shake the soul currency out of my aching body, as the Black Widow spider tickled the hairs inside my ear while whispering; “Just be and all your prayers will manifest.”

My eyes flickered as my sanity caved in on itself, when I heard the Black Widow spider, inside my brain, say, “You are about to embark on a journey, into the New Age of Aquarius. You will meet many false prophets and lawyers along the way.”

I felt the Black Widow spider, dancing inside my aching head and heard strange words in the melody she hummed, while I witnessed her vocal frequencies and wavelengths manifest into colors and hues, as curious images of futures, past and present, flashed swiftly, across my soft, blank, stare, into the multi-universe.

The Black Widow sang lucidly, like a dark angel; humming haunting hymns, into the fiber of my being while repeating a chorus of questions ad nauseam, “Do you understand, My Love? Do you understand?”

A trinity of muses then appeared in a rainbow of colors within my being. The wisdom of generations pounded inside my chest, as the shrill voice of a Black Widow spider, nesting within me, floated onto a stream of profound melodies that drowned out the horror of my existence. At that moment, I surrendered in wonder, as The Three Muses sang sweetly, into my soul, “Be, The Artist. Do not be despondent. Trust your instinct and put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of Crackhead Jesus, the devil and his coven of supreme legal counsel at the enchanted law firm of Which, Witch, Wicca and Wich.”

Like a spinal tap, through my basic instinct, the sharp sting of a Black Widow spider downloaded generations of primal, carnal knowledge into the fiber of my being as The Three Muses continued to sing songs of strength into my soul; “You will come across a big man, who claims to be a poor Jew, with a law degree, from a Roman Catholic University. Do not be fooled by the false prophet named, Crackhead Jesus. He will float in and out of your life with the wind, morphing into strange, disturbing fractals of existence, which you will document in art, for future generations. Crackhead Jesus will tempt and challenge you but do not give in to his negativity and hate, instead, you must shine through the darkness by learning to live, love and flow.”

Trillions of tiny feet tap danced inside my head at the sound of the name Crackhead Jesus. For an instant, that felt eternal, my being was consumed by ravenous spiders, whose frenzied pitter-patter of long, hairy, legs tickled words, while pounding questions and phrases into my head, that sounded like, “What would Crackhead Jesus do?”, “Crackhead Jesus is coming” and “There is only one rule, The Golden Rule.”

“Beware of those you choose to trust on your journey.” The Three Muses sang, as my head spun around in circles, to the rhythmic beat of a thousand undulating arachnids, performing lustful mating dances, within my throbbing psyche. “Crackhead Jesus will introduce himself as a conservative Christian named Mister Rogers. In fact, he is a Wall Street bank lawyer and a judge-shopper, for the good-old-boys-club, at The Florida Bar.”

“You will meet a lawyer whose middle name is Rumpelstiltskin and he will commit perjury in the name of Crackhead Jesus.” The Three Muses noted in chorus. “He will use the Court to exorcise demons conjured by Crackhead Jesus and in so doing will unleash the devil’s minions from within dark shadows of the deep state. This fallen angel will rape the Constitution, in front of Lady Liberty, to force the unholy union of ego and greed; in the name of law.”

I felt the heat from the loins of the Black Widow as she seduced a male spider, full of hubris, with the politically incorrect words she whispered, inside my throbbing head. “The politics of the penis will bring man-made economies to their knees and Crackhead Jesus will manifest a gross conflict of interest, between ego and greed, that will infect generations, of global populations, with terminal distrust, of all government leadership and courts.”

I felt the sting of a Black Widow, sinking its fangs into an aggressive male spider, as he mounted and inseminated her inside my head. My body twitched and tingled as strange liquids traversed the chambers of my brain, while The Three Muses sang; “Crackhead Jesus will be birthed by a White Conservative-Republican, transgender lesbian, with a huge penis and a very small clit. She will be artificially inseminated by a Black, Liberal-Democrat, transgender, bi-sexual, closeted-illegal-alien-transvestite, from Syria, with huge offshore-bank-accounts, a micro-penis, no testicles, or any legal identification and very close ties to the deep state, Russians and The Clinton Machine.”

My swollen bosom heaved and strained as the Black Widow spider spoke sternly into my cerebral cortex, “The birth of Crackhead Jesus will expose portals of existence within shadow governments and reveal a Holographic multi-universe, that perpetually unleashes the creation of corrupt, incompetent and unethical attorneys and judges, that hide within a Litigation vortex, that is propelling the United Slaves of America, through a New World Order and into The Modern Dark Ages. If not stopped, countless generations will be enslaved in a vicious cycle, of hypocrisy, avarice and apathy, as the new norm and God, for all people.”

“If this threat is allowed to transpire to its predicted conclusion, the union of justice and peace, as a reality within nature, the human fiber of being and instinct, will cease to exist.” The Three Muses sang, as sharp hair, on the wet legs of the Black Widow spider, scratched the inside of my ear canal, while she thirst-fully devoured her limp suitor.

The bizarre sensation of nature taking its course inside my head reminded me that I was alive and cognizant, but not at all well, inside the real world; living alongside the United Slaves of America, in The Age of Fake News, before The Modern Dark Ages.

CHAPTER II

[Crackhead Jesus Loves You]

“Fuck, Facebook!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, as I picked up the script for Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, to read aloud. “Diversity of thought is under attack. Free your mind, Kid.”

“I was an outsider looking in, to what less than, one percent of the human race, gets to witness: A first generation Hispanic, with a world famous French name, who grew up in Hollis, Queens, New York, watching Run-DMC rap, while playing softball, at the park, and Spike Lee film, ‘School Daze’, while learning, at Brooklyn Tech, before hanging out with Nazi’s and pedophiles, in the Paraguay jungle, near Iguazu Falls, rock stars and celebrities at private house parties, in Beverly Hills, California and crooked cops and corrupt nightclub owners, in South Beach, Miami, Florida, after leaving the world famous leadership laboratory, at the United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis, Maryland.”  I read out loud, from the heavy script, while pacing, in a room, filled with artwork and storyboards, painted on canvas, wood and paper.

“That’s nice, Kid, but we’re not writing a book, we’re writing a screenplay.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.

“You’re the script doctor, tell me what to do.” I said, while tossing him the screenplay.

“Okay.” He said, flipping through pages of my script. “We need to put those words in action.”

“Let’s do it.” I said, enthusiastically.

“I can’t.” The Hebrew Hammer said, stopping on page ten and shaking his head.

“What?”

“Crackhead Jesus loves you?” He paused to stare at me, as if I were a fool. “That’s disgusting!”

“It’s love.” I answered. “You said you were the best in the business. Fix it.”

“Crackhead Jesus is beyond repair!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Listen, unless the Supreme Court strikes down the law banning disparaging trademarks, no one’s going to want to invest in this movie. The title puts you in the same category as The Slants and Redskins.”

“I can see the headline, in global newspapers, when the Supreme Court decides to protect our freedom, to express the thoughts that we hate.” I said, looking into the future and pausing for a psychic moment. “A remarkably high number of new applications for obscene and racist trademarks have been received at the US Patent and Trademarks Office.”

“Cock Sucker, Nigger Please, Crackhead Jesus and Dicks by Mail, to name just a few.” The Hebrew Hammer laughed, while manufacturing a cross out of marijuana cigarettes on his special Bible. “You might as well try selling shit on a stick, Kid, because nobody’s buying Crackhead Jesus.”

“It’s not blasphemy, it’s the truth.” I answered in frustration, while watching a spider crawl along the moldy ceiling of our hotel room in Fort Myers, Florida, as the witching hour approached. “Besides, the Lord knows, a law forbidding official registration of offensive trademarks unconstitutionally limits free speech. The Supreme Court will come to its senses one day, you’ll see. We’ll be walking the red carpet at the Academy Awards, handing out Crackhead Jesus is coming stickers to fake journalists.”

“Maybe, when hell freezes over but I don’t have time for this megillah.” The Hebrew Hammer said, before pausing to take a sip of Kosher Beer, while sifting through his holey Bible.“I told you, making a real Hollywood film ain’t easy. The Thief and the Cobbler was in and out of production for thirty-one years and that was a fucking cartoon, not Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, so, I suggest you pick your battles wisely, Kid.”

“You don’t get it.” I pleaded, while shoving modern-art-gonzo-journalism in his face.

“No!” He shouted. “Du farkirtst mir di yorn! You don’t get it, your script’s fercockt. This Crackhead Jesus is Meeskait, I’m telling you, it’s just downright ugly, like lying to your Mother on Mother’s Day and I’m not just any Jew, saying that, I’m a seasoned script-doctor, with super-wealthy, movie-making friends, in Hollywood, telling, you, that.” The Hebrew Hammer added, while handing me a joint, before changing his tone of voice. “Light that, would you please, my Shabbos goy.”

Without fuss, I did as the Hebrew Hammer requested, took a toke and passed it back saying, “Dude, I can’t make this stuff up. Crackhead Jesus is a court case, not blasphemy. Google, it.”

“You say, what sounds like blasphemy, is a crooked justice system?”

“Is that Lisa Loeb?” I answered the Hebrew Hammer, with a question of trivia.

“You say, I only hear what I want to.” The Hebrew hammer sang, while bogarting the joint. “Yes, that you do, my free-spirited friend.” He laughed, while pointing a finger at me before looking deep into my cryptic creations. “But, you’re the one keeping a diary of the world on canvas, as you march to the beat of your own drum, into uncharted realms of existence.”

“It’s modern-art-gonzo-journalism.” I noted.

“You’re making your life an open book, for the Lied to Generation to decipher, like ancient hieroglyphics.”

“Hunter S. Thompson did it in words, Dali did it in art and John Lennon did it in music. I’m fusing all three into the Modern Art Music Movement, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”

“On stage, in real-time, during a revolutionary period in human history.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while furiously scribbling red ink, on the tenth rewrite of my script, about false prophets and lawyers titled, ‘Crackhead Jesus: The Movie’.

“While creativity is being threatened, by those who claim to champion free speech.” I added, before getting up and walking, towards crates, that I had neatly stacked in a corner, near the bathroom.

“Cultural genocide.” The Hebrew Hammer sighed. “It’s happening.”

“It’s a sign of the times. We’re coming to a fork in the road of human-history. To the right is an Age of Enlightenment, to the left, Very Dark Ages and in the middle, we have, the road less-traveled, which leads us all into the great unknown.” I said, while holding up a painting for the Hebrew hammer to reflect on, that I had created, on the same stage that Coldplay, The Rolling Stones and Billy Joel had performed, near South Hampton, at The Stephen Talkhouse, in Amagansett, Long Island, New York, during a momentous Modern Art Music Movement, MAMM Jam, with Big Suga.

“Live. Love. Flow.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he scratched his bald spot and stared at my work.

“We need balance, to pass through this wormhole into a Golden Age of Awakening.” I said, while pointing out subliminal messages hidden within the modern-art-gonzo-journalism painting.

“A very old Rabbi, I met at the Western Wall, in the Old City of Jerusalem, once told me: The day creativity reaches its pinnacle and we give up manifesting new realities, we cease to exist in time and space. Culturally, we fall back into the Dark Ages. At which point, he said, we’re all doomed, because nothing grows well and thrives, in darkness and gloom.” The Hebrew Hammer recalled, as I emptied a large crate full of artwork, for his careful consideration, all over the cramped hotel room.

“We all become mushrooms. I think that’s what his point was.” He said, while rummaging through his velvet Tallit and Tefillin Case, before pulling out a clear plastic bag full of fungus. “Speaking of which, I have some psychedelic treats with me, as well, my new, New York artist friend.” He sniffed inside the bag, while adding. “To spice up our time here, at The Welcome Inn, before your big show tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Doofus. The Golden Rule will get us through the Dark Ages and we’ll all blossom into a new Age of Enlightenment.” I said, while shoving raw works of art in the Hebrew Hammer’s face, as he dangled a sandwich bag full of intoxicating mushrooms, in front of my weary, bloodshot eyes.

“You’re so idealistic and with the help of mainstream news and culture outlets, like FOX and MSNBC, no doubt.” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically, as I emptied another crate full of artwork, for his consideration, all over our confined quarter. “It speaks volumes that artists, George Carlin and John Stewart, were the last great investigative reporters, in mainstream media, because as comedians, they could ask serious questions and here you are, now, with the dark comedy of Crackhead Jesus.”

“Look.” I said, holding up a plethora of colorful story-boards on canvas. “Crackhead Jesus is not about anyone’s religion or God. Unemployed investigative journalists, contact me, with real news tips and folks fed up with fake news stories, who feel they are being ignored by police, government and mainstream media news outlets, they tell me what no one wants to hear and I paint their untold stories, giving them a voice, live, on stage, while channeling nature, through the art of creation, at major events.”

“Dressed in a black cowboy hat with skull and crossbones, looking like a redneck version of the band, Kiss.” The Hebrew Hammer, said while digesting the strange visuals being thrown at his Mirror neurons, in rapid succession.

“I give viewers an intense experience, summoning emotions and even activating other repressed senses, when I MAMM Jam on stage.” I said, before taking a long toke, to pause and reminisce, in colorful flashbacks, of Modern Art Music Movement Happenings, that I had participated in, around the globe.

“You make the ladies wet, do you?” The Hebrew Hammer said, sarcastically.

“I have extreme embodied cognition.” I revealed.

“Sounds awful, what is that?”

“The ability to project oneself as an agent into depicted scenes.” I answered, adding, “I capture bidirectional flow, in my mirror neurons, which gives me more vividness.”

“Really, is that true or did you hear that on MSNBC?” The Hebrew Hammer asked.

“I manifest reality, in front of thousands of people, at big concerts and charity events, with huge, global acts, in famous venues, at historic locations, full of ghosts, where I meet Light-Workers, from all over the Universe, while I travel around the world and across the United States, painting untold stories and news, disguised as, The Maverick Artist.”

“So, you paint the news, from coast to coast, dressed like, you’re alter-ego, the greatest American superhero, from an 80’s rock band. Then you use the modern-art-gonzo-journalism you created during your world tour with the Modern Art Music Movement, as film storyboards, for a modern-day parable of redemption. All, told through the eyes of a character, named, Crackhead Jesus, that is offending everyone, in this upside-down, politically-correct, no-free-speech world.”

“Crackhead Jesus, is the opposite of Jesus Christ.” I noted clearly, as thunder struck outside the door. “WWCHJD?”

“The Anti-Christ.” The Hebrew Hammer said, while staring into the face of the shape-shifter, Crackhead Jesus; a painting I had manifested at a benefit MAMM Jam with mentally challenged children in Naples, Florida, the day before our curious Sabbath, at The Welcome Inn.

“Check this out.” I said, while looking at my cell phone. “Facebook Nazi’s reported a Crackhead Jesus meme to Facebook police and had me thrown out of an offensive Facebook group.”

“What?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, as I approached him to share the image on my cell phone screen.

“I like trolling Facebook groups, where members post politically incorrect memes.”

“Why?” The Hebrew Hammer asked, while staring at a screen that said my account was temporarily banned from Facebook, because a contemporary art Crackhead-Jesus-meme, failed to meet community standards.

“To see how long it takes for hardcore snowflakes to melt.” I answered enthusiastically. “It’s amazing. Facebook permits terrorist groups to recruit members, promotes racism, violence, hate speech and misogyny but if you post an artistic, thought provoking meme with the words ‘Crackhead Jesus is coming’ or, ‘What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?’, your account is suspended immediately and you get thrown in Facebook jail.”

“Facebook thinks your art is blasphemy.” The Hebrew Hammer noted.

“When people accuse me of blasphemy, they’re falsely claiming that I ever stated, that their Savior was, or is, a crackhead.” I explained, before retrieving my cell phone and taking a toke of Mary Jane, while the Hebrew Hammer returned to inspecting my diary of the world on canvas.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a pot head, crackhead or heroin addict, nowadays, as long as you don’t use the n-word, in this fake politically-correct world.” The Hebrew Hammer interjected. “You wouldn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings and be labeled racist or insensitive toward Facebook snowflakes.”

The Hebrew Hammer shook his head, after reading the comments of foul-mouthed born-again hypocrites, living in the hatred of Crackhead Jesus, before carefully setting the android down and hungrily reaching for another work of modern-art-gonzo-journalism to ponder.

“Though, I must admit, the names of some of your paintings are offensive.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, as he read the brutally stark titles of my artwork, including ‘Trump Art’, ‘Meinigga’ and ‘Crackheadjesus’, written in black ink, on the back of colorfully painted canvas. “How do you sell Crackhead Jesus and Trump Art to nonbelievers?”

“First, I ask folks who threaten me with, ‘I ought to kick your fucking ass, for saying that about my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ’; ‘What would Jesus do?'” I confess, before passing the joint back to the Hebrew Hammer with squinted eyes. “Then, the people who claim to love Jesus and live in his Light, that bully me with death threats and say they wish I had been aborted, look at me with confusion all over their dumbfounded faces, when I remind them, that Richard Pryor invented crack, in the 80’s, while Duran-Duran, was still hungry, like the wolf.”

“Cunts!” The Hebrew Hammer shouted. “Long after Jesus Christ was crucified, for their gossip, sins and hypocrisy.” He added, before inhaling God’s herb. “I get it.”

“Trump art is a hard sell, I know, but I love a challenge and beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I noted, while receiving the reefer he passed back reflexively, so he could quickly dive back into, the beguiling nature, of my subliminal creations. “I’m working towards pretty and making, informative, happy art but all I get is beautiful chaos and hatred in return.” I stated, woefully while sifting through works of modern-art-gonzo-journalism with a doobie dangling from my lips.

“Pious hypocrites casting stones.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, before I passed him the loco weed.

“Trust your instinct. Paint what you feel, Kid.” He said, after inhaling. “Don’t let the haters make you despondent. Go ahead, be the maverick artist. Paint what you want.”

“Resist, persist, insist, enlist.”  I said, while splashing color on works of art before handing them to the Hebrew Hammer for introspection. ” WWCHJD? What would Crackhead Jesus do?”

“What are you doing?” The Hebrew Hammer shouted, in horror as I began adding a hint of cerulean blue to a painting titled, ‘Eating A Nothing Burger with Hillary Clinton, At The DNC, During the Long, Hot, Resistance Summer, In America ‘, with a fresh oil stick. “Stop that!”

“I’m just finishing it up.” I said, without pausing the act of creation. “I’m practicing for my gig tomorrow night, with the All Stars at the MAMM Jam Festival.”

“I thought that painting was finished.” The Hebrew Hammer said, in disgust. “Nudnek! It was beautiful. You’ve ruined it!”

“I’m not a speed painter. I’ve got a ninety-minute show to put on, tomorrow.” I said, to the Hebrew Hammer, as his face cringed. “My paintings aren’t finished until they are sold; away from my whim and brushstrokes.” I paused, before asking, “If you liked it so much, why didn’t you buy it, before I enhanced it?”

“You should give it to me, Kid. I have rich friends come over, all the time. They’ll see your artwork, on my walls.”

“And then what?”

The Hebrew Hammer sat silent, before I asked,”Do you tell your doctor, to perform free surgery on you, or your lawyer, to do free legal work, for you, so you, can recommend them, to all your cheap, elitist friends?”

“We can barter.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with a smirk and raised eyebrow. “As a script doctor, my services ain’t cheap.”

“You write for, Kosher Pervert Productions, in the porn industry.” I noted sarcastically.

“I’m trying to go mainstream.” He replied, earnestly.

“With Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?”

“I can make it work.” The Hebrew Hammer said, with confidence. “If you want to trade, for your art.”

“We can do that,” I voiced my agreement, as we both reached in for a firm handshake. “Listen, if you like a painting, buy it but until my art sells, the creations are my kids.” I paused, to look him in the eyes and feel his grip in my hand, before adding, “Let my paintings evolve naturally. I’ll raise the art to fruition, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not. So, let’s return to your script.” The Hebrew Hammer pivoted back on point, stating pragmatically, as he made notes in red ink on my script, “Alright, let’s see, here, it says that, somewhere in time, Jesus Christ walked the Earth. Around 1 A.D. Jesus Christ hung out with Buddha and Muhammad and Crackhead Jesus hung out with Richard Pryor after the death of Disco and the Mayor of Toronto, before crack was whack in Canada.”

“Is that true, or did you hear it on CNN?” I asked, as the image of CNN reporter, Charles Jaco, feigning coverage of the 1990 Persian Gulf War, flashed across the purposefully, silent television screen, facing away from the Hebrew Hammer’s line of sight, to be Orthodox, on Sabbath.

“It’s a hard sell man, especially in this politically-correct culture we’re living in. Most people won’t understand Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule, that’s all I’m telling you.” The Hebrew Hammer noted, while coughing a large, residual-cloud of smoke, into the room, as I showed him another Facebook conversation, about Crackhead Jesus and fake news, influencing pop culture.

“Crackhead Jesus and the Golden Rule.” I paused after speaking, to let the words sink into my subconscious, as I watched CNN contributor Donna Brazile, peddle colluded fake news coverage, over airwaves.

“I like that.” I said, while tearing strips of toilet paper, as designated Goy, in halachic compliance, approved by major poskim, for the Hebrew Hammer, who was keenly digesting modern-art-gonzo-journalism, for the very first time, in his extraordinary life.

“So what’s with all the spiders in your Crackhead Jesus script?”

“It’s metaphor.” I answered.

“Okay, but the beginning is still too existential. It’s meaningless to a filmmaker. You need action not metaphor.”

“You want more action?” I asked.

“And big tits, somewhere in the story. Look, my point is, you’re limiting your audience. You’re going to lose whoever sticks around after seeing the name Crackhead Jesus and anyone with arachnophobia, that’s for sure.”

“Just keep reading.” I said, before exhaling a cloud of rings, into the smelly room, as The Hebrew Hammer shook his head while looking down at my screenplay. “Here, take a hit of this, it’ll help you make sense of the story.”

The Hebrew Hammer adjusted the yarmulke, on his balding head, before grabbing the joint, taking a hit and delving back into the legend of Crackhead Jesus, with an open mind, as the sky poured heavy rain, down on The Welcome Inn, long after midnight.

CHAPTER III

[Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele]

“Beware of the witch, who calls himself a Judge and is nicknamed, Donald “The Duck” Hafele, at the shady Florida Bar, where Your Honor is regularly pimped out, to the highest bidder, for judicial favors.” The Black Widow spider spoke to me, as I judged her ethics in my mind, while watching her devour another limp suitor.

“Judge Donald “The Duck” Hafele speaks one thing but does another.” The Three Muses sang, as the Black Widow spider licked her hairy legs inside my head. “And, like Rumpelstilstkin, you can’t say his name out loud, or Crackhead Jesus and his minions, will accuse you of blasphemy, in the court of public opinion.”

“You will meet the specter of G-Rod Miller and he will open your eyes, to a man-made drought of soul currency that threatens to starve billions of souls, when a catastrophic tsunami of spiritual famine is unleashed upon mankind, by lawyers, witches and devils, embedded in shadows of the deep state.” The insatiable Black Widow whispered, as I opened my eyelids, to see a room full of spiders, staring back at me, with over a billion eyes. “The Golden Rule, will cease to exist, on Earth, forever.”

I shut my eyelids quickly and in the darkness, saw the face of a bright, young, boy staring back at me, with hope in his eyes and a great white smile, on his big, black face. Like a lunar eclipse of the sun, G-Rod Miller’s ghostly image blacked out the spiders I sensed crawling all around me. “What Would Crackhead Jesus Do?” He asked my soul, as I released a primal scream, into the echoes of my mind.

“Crackhead Jesus will try to convince you that everything is broken beyond repair and to accept the status quo but do not be fooled by his wily deception.” The Black Phantom spoke through a chill that left me shivering. “Witches, disguised as lawyers and judges, will attempt to veer you from your destiny as, The Maverick Artist. They will try to alter your identity in Court, by forcefully changing your birth name on record, but fear not what liars call you in corrupt halls of justice, because you are also, the voice of the Lied to Generation and The Three Muses will always be there to protect you. “

A fat spider scurried across my grinding teeth to the top of my head shouting, “Crackheadjesus is coming! Crackheadjesus is coming!”, as the Three Muses sang, “Angels and Light-Workers will enhance your ability and talents to spread a message of peace, love and compassionate wealth, through seven generations forward. Do not fear, My Love, we will always watch over you, with the strength and guidance of Saint Michael the Archangel.”

“You will keep a diary of the world on canvas.” The Black Widow whispered in my ear as the Three Muses seeped into my fiber of being, through the iris of my eyes, singing, “You are the Backpacker and will forever be ethereal as you travel through the multi-universe.”

I vaporized into my core and visualized my aura hovering above realms inside the multi-universe, just outside of reality, where one plus one, did not equal three. In a moment of both panic and ecstasy, I gave into my faith and passed out from the sheer pleasure of pain. Minutes later, I awoke, drenched in a cold sweat that left my body listless, as a strong voice in my head spoke of secret messages and instructed me to pack my necessary belongings swiftly, for a very long road trip.

CHAPTER IV

[How To Make A Film Titled Crackhead Jesus: The Movie]

“Great! Now we’re getting somewhere. I love road trip movies.” The Hebrew Hammer said, as he leaped from the chair and stretched his arms out, like King Kong in a cramped room.

 “It’s not really a road trip movie.” I said, while passing a freshly lit joint, over to The Hebrew Hammer, after he adjusted his tzitzis and yarmulke, in front of a rusted and cum-stained, standing-mirror, at The Welcome Inn.

 “Well then, forget it, because I’m not gonna invest my trust fund money in a B-Movie or arthouse flick about a fat-Jewish-crackhead, who thinks he’s Jesus Christ.”