The New York Post, which some critics consider a rag, recently published an article by Michael Goodwin titled, “American Journalism Is Collapsing Before Our Eyes.”
IT IS NO WONDER THAT PUBLIC TRUST IN NEWS MEDIA IS ALL BUT EXTINGUISHED WHEN JOURNALISM IS FUNDAMENTALLY DISHONEST IN REPORTING EDITORIAL OPINION AS FACT AND TRUTH.
The New York Times has thrown out standards and violated all journalistic integrity in favor of echoing the Whitehouse and Hillary Clinton campaign.
AMERICAN FLAG VICTOR HUGO VACA II
The New York Times echoed the false premise of weapons of mass destruction, spoon-fed by Colin Powell and the Bush Whitehouse, to careless New York Times editors who published articles encouraging war in Iraq, without fact checking.
MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALISM PAINTING, “THE THREE SOLDIERS” REPORTED THE WAR IN IRAQ AS BOTH AN INVASION AND A FARCE, BEFORE IT WAS CHIC, AT THE 2006 “CONTINUE TO DESCEND” EXHIBIT FEATURING WORK BY JEFF KOONS AND MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II, AS NOTED IN THE NY ARTS MAGAZINE ARTICLE BY KATE HICKEY.
History will tell that bad reporting by The New York Times was partially responsible for the United States Invasion of Iraq and the continuing quagmire that exists in the Middle East, which is now bleeding heavily into Europe and on American soil.
“GOD SPOKE BUT INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISTS WERE ALL LAID OFF, SO NOBODY LEARNED A THING.” MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALISM STORY BOARD DRAWING BY MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II.
Instead of using investigative journalism to confirm facts properly before publishing content as a beacon of news and information for public trust, The New York Times, Miami Herald and Fort Myers News Press, to name a few, appear to be practicing copy and paste journalism that makes modern-art-gonzo-journalism seem more like Jon Stewart’s, “The Daily Show”, to cultured Millennials.
IT IS ESTIMATED THAT BETWEEN 6-10% OF REVENUE, ACTUALLY GOES TO CHARITY, IN “THE CLINTON FOUNDATION”, EVEN LESS IN FLY BY NIGHT CHARITIES, THAT EXPLOIT HANDICAPPED CHILDREN, WOMEN AND VETERANS FOR POLITICAL FAVORS AND PERSONAL ENRICHMENT.
“I mean, honestly, the question, I think, now for the Clintons is, ‘What else don’t we know? What don’t we know about your donors? What don’t we know about the conflicts of interest that those donors represent when Mrs. Clinton is serving as Secretary of State?’ We are now finding out that so little of those charitable donations actually go to charitable works.” – Republican presidential candidate Carly Fiorina
2013 ANNUAL REVENUE OF THE CLINTON FOUNDATION WAS $149 MILLION OF WHICH $9 MILLION OR 6% ACTUALLY MADE ITS WAY TO CHARITY IN GRANTS, ALLEGEDLY.
To be fair, according to Katherina Rosqueta, the founding executive director of the Center for High Impact Philanthropy at the University of Pennsylvania, “There is an important distinction between an operating foundation vs. a non-operating foundation; An operating foundation implements programs so money it raises is not designed to be used exclusively for grant-making purposes. When most people hear ‘foundation’, they think exclusively of a grant-making entity. In either case, the key is to understand how well the foundation uses money — whether to implement programs or to grant out to nonprofits.”
THE UNDECIDED VOTER
Katherina Rosqueta, The Undecided Voter notices, is suggesting the Clinton Foundation is an “operating foundation.”
“THE GONIF INSIDE” MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALISM STORY BOARD DRAWING BY MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II.
The Clinton Foundation allegedly spent 12 percent of its revenue on travel and conferences and 20 percent of its revenue on salaries.
GONIFS COLLUDE WITH JOURNALISTS TO BAMBOOZLE DO-GOODERS INTO EXPLOITING THE FEEBLE MINDED AND WEAK IN SACRIFICE OF PUBLIC TRUST.
Mr. Bill was a friend of mine. When he needed shelter, I housed him. When he needed food, I fed him. One day, Mr. Bill called to ask a favor of me.
“The All Stars are getting together again, would you like to be part of the reunion?” He asked.
I recalled the thrill of being on stage, in front of thousands of cheering fans in Fort Myers, Florida, using my gift of synesthesia to interpret wavelengths and frequencies of music in color on canvas, with rock & roll legends, who collectively, sold over half a billion records worldwide.
“Is it going to be like the first time?” I asked.
“ALL STAR MAMM JAM” BY MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II.
“Yes.” He answered. “Only this time, it will be to benefit handicapped children. My girlfriend’s son has autism. He attends the Able Academy in Naples. I wondered if you wouldn’t mind working with them the day before the show at the school. The band is going to be there and so is FOX News. At the concert, I’ll make sure the stage is set up properly. If you don’t mind, we’ll bring the kids up and let them paint with you during one of the songs. You can stay with the band at the beachfront mansion I rented and I’ll cover your travel expenses. What do you say, can you do it?”
“Sure.” I answered.
“Oh, and after we perform for the children in Naples, we’re scheduled for a gig in Fort Myers, at the opening game of spring training for the World Series champions, the Boston Red Sox.” Mr. Bill paused before continuing. “So, you’ll be there too, right? You can create three Modern Art Music Movement paintings to commemorate the All Star weekend.”
“Yeah, sure, no problem. I’ll be there for all three MAMM Jams”
After hanging up with Mr. Bill, I got a phone call from my best friend Todd in New York, a huge Orthodox Jew that looks like an albino gorilla wearing a yamaka. He’s a wrestling champion, nicknamed, “The Hebrew Hammer”, who plays the harmonica with chutzpa and soul.
“My friend just invited me to a VH1 Fashion Week Party full of notable celebrities, he’s one of the performing artists, so it’s going to be VIP all the way, you want to come? VH1 gave him a suite at the Times Square Marriott, there’s plenty of room, you can be my guest.” Todd said.
“I would love to.” I answered, before realizing that the dates conflicted with the bond I had given to my friend Mr. Bill for sake of the children at the Able Academy. “Why don’t you join me in Fort Myers for an All-Star MAMM Jam with former members of Boston, Steely Dan, The Doobie Brothers, Third World, The Wailers and The James Brown Band, to benefit mentally handicapped children? I’ll tell Mr. Bill I’m bringing you as my guest and you can stay with me at the beachfront mansion he’s renting for the band.”
“You sure it’s going to be alright, remember, I’m Kosher, what about Shabbat?”
“ Dude, they’re rock legends, not anti-semites.”
“Alright, I’ll buy my ticket to fly down to your Labyrinth of Creativity on the beach near Miami. I’ll rent a big car for us to drive across Alligator Alley together, as long as you make sure I can celebrate my Weekly Holy Day.”
“You got it, Todd. I promise.”
So began my covenant with the Able Academy kids and my friends, never realizing that my commitment would lead to a series of events that left me afraid of charity and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
CHAPTER ONE: THE SPECIAL ARTIST FROM NYC
The day before meeting the Able Academy kids in Naples, I was scheduled to appear on WRPBI-TV, which broadcasts out of Boca Raton, Florida, to promote the All Star event in Fort Myers. Prior to my interview, on a show titled, “Out Of The Haze with Bryan Hayes”, I was introduced to Snow, a Canadian Reggae Musician, whose song, “Informer”, has been recorded twice in the “Guinness Book Of World Records” as the best selling reggae single in U.S. History, as well as the highest charting reggae single in history, after spending seven consecutive weeks at Number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1993.
I signed an autograph for Snow’s daughter talked to his manager, invited them all to the event in Fort Myers and next thing I knew, I was being asked intimate questions about my career as a “maverick artist” on a soundstage, in front of a television camera. According to Todd, who watched the show on a monitor backstage, the half-hour interview was “perfect”.
Outside, the weather was beyond nasty, torrential downpours and lightning strikes peppered the day and were forecast deep into the night. My trip across Alligator Alley to Fort Myers would be a dangerous journey. Thunder struck as Todd and I exited the television station, making a mad dash for the rental car, through deep puddles, under umbrellas that failed to keep us dry. Soaked, we began our adventure to the west coast of Florida, in the name of charity.
Halfway over the treacherous road that cuts through the Everglades, I received a text message from Mr. Bill advising me that Skunk Baxter, formerly of the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan, had arrived at the Fort Myers beachfront mansion with his grandchildren, which meant there was no room for Todd and I.
There are no U-turns or exits on Alligator Alley, it’s one- way in and one-way out so, we had no choice but to stay the course. The weather was grave, as we drove cautiously through the darkness of night with little road visibility, in spite of glaring high beams, that only shined light on our immediate predicament. I could not respond to Mr. Bill’s untimely message in the midst of such severe weather because of our remote location, in the middle of the Everglades, which offered no cell phone reception.
After a grueling five and a half-hour road trip, Todd and I made it to Mr. Bill’s home near the Henry Ford and Thomas Edison estates in Fort Myers. My cell phone battery was dead, so I knocked on the door and asked Mr. Bill’s housekeeper to notify him of our arrival. I smiled at Todd, when I noticed the framed painting of, “Cristomujer”, which I had personally signed and gifted to Mr. Bill when he last stayed at my home as a houseguest, hanging prominently on his living room wall. Todd and I looked at framed photographs of Mr. Bill standing side by side with every single United States President since Richard Nixon and other notables in the music and entertainment world, as his voice carried over the cell phone speaker of his house-keeper.
“Don’t send them over to the beach house.” Mr. Bill said, unaware that he was on speakerphone.
“Shall I set them up here?” The housekeeper asked, with an embarrassed look on his face.
“No! Let them sleep in the fixer-upper.”
“But, there’s no beds or furniture, there’s no hot water or locks on the doors. Are you sure? There’s plenty of room here.”
“I don’t want them staying at the house, do what I tell you.” Mr. Bill said firmly before ending the call abruptly.
“I thought you said this guy was your friend?” Todd asked.
“He is.” I said, with a confused look on my face, as I dripped onto Mr. Bill’s wooden floor in front of his housekeeper, who looked back at me with pity.
“There’s a mattress in the garage. The garage is full of junk. If you guys help me, we can take the mattress out, put it in my truck, and you both can sleep on it over at the fixer-upper.”
An hour later, after wiping cobwebs and spiders off a stained mattress in the middle of a thunderstorm, we arrived at what appeared to be a crack house near the Edison Estate in Fort Myers. There were no blinds, shades or window treatments for privacy. Puddles riddled rooms in fluid Rorschach shapes from leaks in the ceiling. A blood red stain covered the kitchen floor in the manner of a human body drawn by Keith Haring, which made the place appear like a crime scene.
“You’ll have to climb through the window.” Mr. Bill’s housekeeper announced before exiting through the dank garage.
“I thought I heard you say there was no locks on the doors.” Todd interjected.
“Well, I don’t have keys for the padlocks used to secure the front and back exits, so, you’ll have to climb through the window if you really got to get out, otherwise, just come and go through the garage.” Mr. Bill’s housekeeper said in visible breaths that sliced through the pungent smell of mildew permeating the carport. “Doors broke, so it’s always open.”
“Are you serious?” Todd asked, looking at me sternly.
“Oh, and the toilets don’t work.” Mr. Bill’s housekeeper paused before adding, “And, I wouldn’t drink the water either, it’s brown.”
Todd and I were out of there, back into the storm, without a place to rest, hours before I was supposed to perform for handicapped children in Naples and thousands of classic rock and Boston Red Sox fans in Fort Myers.
After Midnight, we showed up at the beachfront mansion, where we were initially supposed to stay. I called Mr. Bill, to let him know we were outside but he didn’t answer the phone. Minutes later, he responded with a text message that read, “You can’t stay here. Don’t ring the bell, you’ll wake the band”.
Todd and I stared in disbelief, through buckets of rain being scattered by windshield wipers, at a huge RV that could easily sleep a dozen people, parked outside the beachfront mansion, while I contacted my manager to explain the situation.
“Can you find us a hotel?” I pleaded.
Half an hour later, my manager called back to say that all hotels in the Fort Myers area were booked. She said she would try to find us a hotel within a hundred mile radius and call back once she had secured a room for us.
In that time, Todd received a call from his friend, who had just finished performing at the VH1 fashion show in New York City, he was on speakerphone, so I could hear every detail of how awesome the event was and how amazing the star-studded after-party was going. I slumped into the seat as Todd stared down at me. I felt like such a shmuck.
“Why don’t you guys fly over on the red eye? There are hot models everywhere! I’ve got a suite at the Marriott Times Square for the weekend, the party’s just begun!”
Finally, around 2 a.m., my manager called with reservations for a hotel in Naples, not far from the Able Academy, where I was supposed to arrive at 8 a.m. to rehearse for my 9 o’clock performance with the All Stars in front of FOX News cameras and a roomful of handicapped children. The hotel was about two hours away, according to the GPS. It would cost me $287.00 to rest my head for a few hours, or I could hop on a flight with Todd and be in Manhattan, cavorting with A-list celebrities and models all weekend.
“It’s up to you.” Todd said. “I can drive us to the airport or to the hotel. Mr. Bill doesn’t sound like a very good friend and I don’t think he’s going to honor his word. Let’s cut our losses and get out of here.”
“Yeah, but I promised these kids. My manager says they’ve been studying my work for weeks and are looking forward to meeting me.” I answered, not sure why I cared, since, I don’t have children of my own and I much prefer partying with women than I do playing with kids. My instinct told me to get on a plane to New York and live like a party animal for the weekend but my heart told me to do the right thing and stay for the youngsters at the Able Academy.
Darkness shifted from crimson to amethyst before turning azure in the heaven above, shining a bright light in my eyes through the window shades, as the alarm went off, two hours after falling asleep. Todd stayed in bed; there was no waking him up. My brain was mush from lack of rest and my body ached from being trapped in a car for over ten hours. When I arrived at the Able Academy, the director of the school told me that Mr. Bill had just called to inform her that the All Star Band was not coming and since the band had cancelled, FOX News decided to abort the affair as well.
I had never worked with handicapped children before in my life. Without a clue, I told the director of the school to follow my lead and we would make something special happen for the rising generation. I determined the disabled kids would get a MAMM Jam, with or without Mr. Bill and his All Star Band.
“The show must go on”, I thought, through all the confusion. So, I grabbed some canvas, paints and brushes, out of the trunk of my car; found a radio and some strobe lights and hustled into the Able Academy as a text message from my manager came in, reminding me not to be late for the “Boston Strong MAMM Jam” , honoring victims of the Boston bombing at the Boston Red Sox Spring Training opener in Fort Myers at noon.
I told the school director that I only had two hours before having to rush over to the stadium. She said it wasn’t enough time to spend with all the kids and that they would be disappointed because they had spent weeks examining my work in anticipation of my arrival.
I suggested doubling the number of youngsters I would work with at a time and she said that would be impossible because mentally handicapped children could be uncomfortable and unpredictable in large groups. She warned me that even with the most experienced of teachers and professional counselors, they could get violent or unruly. I told her we didn’t have a choice and so my spontaneous adventure in art therapy with the special kids at the Able Academy began.
CHAPTER TWO – BOSTON STRONG
“All interesting artists are autodidacts.” – Massimiliano Gioni
In some Italian provinces, the word ‘artist’ is a synonym for dunce. An artist must walk a tightrope between being perceived as an illustrious nobody or a famous intellectual by critics disguised as cultural sycophants in an arena filled with smoke and mirrors. Being a creator is not a career for fragile egos, so to be a virtuoso, one must have thick skin.
I have been called all sorts of things by critics, not all of them complimentary, but I survive and my work will live on, long after my corporal being exits this plane of existence, in the expanding multi-universe.
In 2005, after performing a MAMM Jam with Rhythmm Epkins, drummer for “The English Beat”, and founder of the R&B funk group, “Mind, Body & Soul”, to raise money for the mentally handicapped, at a sold-out show in Bakersfield, California, where the first five rows were reserved for the mentally challenged, who were the most appreciative audience I have ever had the pleasure of performing in front of, I became known, by some critics, as, “Victor-Hugo: The Artist of Retards”.
When I performed MAMM Jams during 2009 Art Basel Week in Miami, Florida to sold-out, standing room only crowds attending the infamous, “Crackhead Jesus: The Second Coming Art Exhibition”, at the “Buck 15 Gallery Lounge” on Lincoln Road, a large group of women from Weight Watchers joined me onstage while I painted the unique moment on canvas, at which point, I became known, by some critics, as, “Victor-Hugo: The Artist of Fat Chicks and Retards”.
Some call me, “The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo” others call me, “The Maverick Meatball”. Whatever the case, I’m happy. However, as I am an artist/activist birthed from a business background, I’ve come to notice that artists are often treated like “The-Retards-of-the-Business-World” instead of sober-entrepreneurs, by some ignorant top brass. Though, thankfully, not all influence makers exploit an artists’ passion, those who choose to dim the light instead of fueling the soul, manifest dark energy that fills the multi-universe, all this, in spite of knowing that entertainment is, in fact, like any other business, an industry that must flow perpetually, in balance of soul currency, to exist infinitely.
Art is not cheap to create. It takes effort, ingenuity and time and since time is money, if I had a Bitcoin, for every time someone, like Mr. Bill, told me, “Why don’t you perform for free, it’ll be good exposure?” or, “How about giving me one of your paintings, for free, to hang in my mansion, so all my filthy-rich friends can see your work, while smoking weed?” I’d be a tycoon of Rothschild proportions.
Do these unenlightened moguls ask Doctors to perform surgery for free or ask lawyers to satisfy their legal issues, free of charge, because it’s good practice?
I don’t think so. An artist must always risk failure, for failure is part of the process but that doesn’t mean creators should accept the status quo of double-dealing in business matters or any other affairs. An artist has class mobility, for that reason, particularly in a disturbed society, a virtuoso must ask the right questions, open consciousness, raise awareness and elevate minds.
An artist should serve mankind, for that reason, humanity should not become complacent with the profiteering of an artist because a true artist can be childlike forever and the exploitation of children is detrimental to any culture pursuing Enlightenment. Some muddled people feel the world doesn’t need artists because art doesn’t meet our basic needs to survive but that’s bogus; art fuels the soul currency of human capital that trumps any banknote or material treasure.
These thoughts raced through my aching head, as I prepared to meet my audience of special children at The Able Academy in Naples, Florida, hours before my gig with the All Stars at the Boston Red Sox Spring Training Opener in Fort Myers, Florida, to honor victims of the Boston Marathon bombing. As if taunting my choice of career, the outstretched, blank canvas, measuring 36 x 71, clipped to the front of a long table turned on it’s side, resting atop another elongated table, stared back at me, screaming, “Fail! Fail! Fail!”
I’ve heard people say that animals can sense fear and weakness. I don’t know what experts say about children with autism but I can tell you this, the moment the Able Academy director opened the door, to let kids into the room where I stood vulnerable, feeling helpless and alone in a cruel world, a beautiful boy ran to me, clasped my knees lovingly and looked up at me like a cherub in a chapel. I felt such overwhelming affection from the pint-sized angel holding a tight grip on me that, in an instant, all the negativity and cynicism inside of me washed away like the Great Flood. I fought back tears in that abstract moment that seemed to last a lifetime because I did not want to break down in front of the celestial beings surrounding me.
One by one, frail angels entered the room, coalescing in the ecstasy of colors, dancing freely with paint and brushes in their tiny hands as they guided me through the purity of love being expressed on canvas without shame, guilt or remorse. I noticed one child slumped in the corner with his face in his hands. He beckoned me with magnificent eyes that stared at me through the cracks in his fingers.
“”Would you like to paint with us?” I asked, as I knelt down before him.
“Art has power.” He said, letting his guard down.
“Yes, it does.” I said as I placed a brush in his hand. “Show me what you can do.”
“Believe in your greatness and it will be the death of your creativity.” He said, taking my hand in his and leading me to the canvas where we melted into the void of color alongside the other offspring.
The joy was so intense, time flew by the way magic moments do and before I knew it the unique experience was over. I said goodbye to the kids, packed my equipment, called Todd, who was patiently waiting outside the hotel after having checked out and assured him I was on my way to get him for the hour-long journey to Fort Myers.
He reminded me that we were running late.
Before leaving, the stunned school director asked me how I had managed to get the catatonic child to speak. She said it was a miracle because the juvenile never spoke to anyone. I told her I communicated with respect and dignity. The innocent confided in me that the adults didn’t understand them and didn’t pay attention, which frankly, was no surprise to me, since out of the mouth of babes comes truth and most adults can’t handle the truth, which is why some adolescents choose to stay silent.
Traffic was at a crawl, leading up to the stadium in Fort Myers. It seemed all of creation had come to cheer for the World Series Champions at the Spring Training Opener. My manager had coordinated for the Boston Red Sox to sign the painting created with the Able Academy children, for the artwork to be auctioned off in their benefit but when I got to the stadium, Mr. Bill chastised me for my manager doing so, claiming she had overstepped her bounds, “It’s my show, damn it!” He stated indefatigably before adding, “Hurry up, you’re late! The band goes on stage in 10 minutes.”
“This is your friend?” Todd said, looking at Mr. Bill with disgust and me with sympathy, as Mr. Bill’s girlfriend Melissa approached me with open arms and a huge smile.
“Oh my God! I heard you got my son to speak, I wish I could have been there.” She said holding back tears.
“Why weren’t you?” I thought to myself, sinking into her warm embrace while Mr. Bill stared back at me with contempt that I could not explain.
One by one, the All Stars embraced me before going on stage. I was reunited with members of Bon Jovi, Boston, The Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, The Wailers, Third World, The James Brown Band and Foster Child, none of which were aware of the harrowing experience that had preceded our moment in time before the Boston Red Sox fans in Fort Myers. Like the victims of the Boston bombing, I was determined to carry on, undaunted by adversity, and so I did, creating “Boston Strong” alongside music industry titans, in front of a live audience on February 28, 2014.
The painting, “Boston Strong”, is signed by Bon Jovi’s bass player, Hugh McDonald ; Fran Sheehan, the former bassist and original member of the band Boston; Barry Goudreau, guitarist and original member of the band Boston; Leroy Romans, former keyboard player for Third World and The Wailers; Robert “Mousey” Thompson, drummer for the late James Brown; Danny Beissel of the band Foster Child; B.A.M. (Bad Ass Musician) and Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo.
Philanthropy is great but some charities are a sham whose only purpose is to make money for the producer of the fundraiser. Most charities are legitimate but others exploit children, veterans or the handicapped by using paid fundraisers whose fees eat up most of a donation through loopholes, so very little money is actually shared with those most in need.
In 2013, total giving to charitable organizations was $335.17 billion. Hundreds of charities claim to help the disadvantaged but how much of the money raised actually goes to the cause being donated to and how much cash goes to the fundraiser?
The answer, unfortunately, is almost nothing goes to the motive. Even if regulators try to shut down unscrupulous fundraisers for fooling donors, most operate without fear of reckoning because mainstream media, that survives on the public trust of its audience, has accepted exploitation of the underprivileged as status quo and therefore under reports the fact that very little money makes it to those who need it most when it comes to fundraising.
Case in point, the story of Charles Runnells, who covers arts and entertainment for The News Press in Fort Myers, Florida. When asked to research allegations of fraud by an alleged scammer in his community, focusing on specific causes like handicapped children and disabled veterans to play on the generosity of his readership, Mr. Runnells dismissed the accusation, as not worthy of his time for a thorough, in-depth investigation.
If you are thinking about giving to a charity, beware of fundraisers who: refuse to provide detailed information about identity, mission, costs and how donations will be used; won’t provide proof that a contribution is tax deductible; use high-pressure tactics in shaming you to donate; refuse to provide proof of percentage of donation actually going to the charity; refuse to provide forensic accounting of how much money will be going to the fundraiser, after expenses; are not registered with the state as a charity or fundraiser.
If you think you’ve been the victim of a charity scam, file a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission or contact your State Attorney. There is no glory in being a stooge. Stand strong in the face of adversity. Your action can help detect patterns of unscrupulousness that may lead to investigations and prosecutions.
I wrote some of what you just read on canvas, in front of Red Sox fans, during my performance at the Boston Strong Modern Art Music Movement (MAMM) Jam in Fort Myers, FL. When I’m on stage, I enter a trance, filling the void with colorful letters that swirl into words that dance in syncopation to the wavelengths and frequencies of sounds that surround me, manifesting sentences that educate audiences in a cacophony of coloring that provides a foundation, for the work of art created to serve as a historical document of the event, for future generations to consider, and digest, in light of the fact that, if you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything, because truth is imprinted on the canvas of life.
If what’s alleged about Bill Cosby is less sweet than a pudding pop, watchdog journalists, like Mark Whitaker, won’t investigate thoroughly; so too when it comes to Mr. Bill in the news press. In 1914, Walter Williams wrote “The Journalist’s Creed”. Essentially, it reads:
I believe in the profession of journalism.
I believe that the public journal is a public trust, that all connected with it are, to the full measure of responsibility, trustees for the public, that all acceptance of lesser service than the public service is a betrayal of trust.
I believe that clear thinking, clear statement, accuracy and fairness are fundamental to good journalism.
I believe that a journalist should write only what he holds in his heart to be true.
I believe that suppression of the news, for any consideration other than the welfare of society, is indefensible.
I believe that no one should write as a journalist what he would not say as a gentleman, that bribery by one’s own pocket book is as much to be avoided as bribery by the pocketbook of another, that individual responsibility may not be escaped by pleading another’s instructions or another’s dividends.
I believe that advertising, news and editorial columns should alike serve the best interests of readers; that a single standard of helpful truth and cleanness should prevail for all; that supreme test of good journalism is the measure of its public service.
I believe that the journalism which succeeds the best and best deserves success fears God and honors man; is stoutly independent; unmoved by pride of opinion or greed of power; constructive, tolerant but never careless, self-controlled, patient, always respectful of it’s readers but always unafraid, is quickly indignant at injustice; is unswayed by the appeal of the privilege or the clamor of the mob; seeks to give every man a chance, and as far as law, an honest wage and recognition of human brotherhood can make it so, an equal chance is profoundly patriotic while sincerely promoting international good will and cementing world-comradeship, is a journalism of humanity, of and for today’s world.
Well, that was then and this is now. In the internet age of NBC News Director, Brian Williams, being everywhere but in reality, journalist’s hide behind clips of kittens, puppies and laughing babies trending online, while wiping their asses with the Journalist’s Creed, which is why, I fused Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzo journalism with Salvador Dali’s style of impregnating subliminal messages into psychedelically-poetic-cryptic works of art, to create modern art gonzo journalism for The Lied To Generation through the Modern Art Music Movement (MAMM).
The twenty-four hour news cycle is brimming with cross-legged beauties wearing little more than big smiles while flashing their stately pair of gams for the camera’s voyeuristic gaze as teleprompters feed them the horrific news of the day, before thanking rainbow colored pundits tripping over themselves to avoid saying, “You’re welcome”, in response to the inviting news anchors gratitude for joining the staged broadcast. Instead, we as audience witness talking heads state, with great inflection intimating courteous one-upmanship, “No! Thank you, for having me, on your program.”
One can only imagine the number of viewers who masturbate while watching the news, in a world where titillation has replaced fact and, on that note, with a long, hard stroke of my thick, wet brush I finished painting “Boston Strong” in front of an open-mouthed audience in Fort Myers, Florida, that was begging for more. Alas, there was no encore from the All-Star Band, at the Boston Red Sox Spring Training Home-Opener. The eager crowd got what they deserved and from the satisfied look on their faces, they loved every moment of the MAMM Jam experience.
“What the hell was that?” Mr. Bill asked, when I got off stage.
“Modern art gonzo journalism.” I answered, nonplussed. “I paint the news.”
“Thank God it wasn’t one of your DNA Series.” Mr. Bill shook his head in disgust and walked away muttering. “Sperm painting.”
“Hey Bill, where am I staying tonight? I don’t have a place to rest and last night cost me three hundred bucks out of pocket. What’s up?” I asked the back of Mr. Bill’s head.
“We’ll talk about it later.” Mr. Bill answered, without turning around. “I’m busy.”
At that moment, I remembered a rumor about a friend of mine who plays with The Cars, J Geils Band and The Bellevue Cadillac. Allegedly, Mr. Bill had asked the beloved musician to join the All Star Band for a gig on Wall Street to raise money for wounded veterans but when it came time to reimburse the artist for travel expenses and accommodations, as promised, Mr. Bill failed to honor his word and left the well-respected performer in the red.
It’s a small world and news travels fast about a person’s reputation but all I knew about Mr. Bill at that point was, that like Bill Cosby, both men were highly regarded, well-liked and doted on by those who did not wish to disturb the Natural Order of Things in the entertainment world, so bad press was hard to come by for either man and uttering anything negative about Mr. Bill or Bill Cosby, was simply taboo in the entertainment industry.
I chose to reserve judgment as I stared at Mr. Bill ignoring my concerns in favor of being fawned by fans, backstage, in front of his girlfriend, Melissa. The truth is hard to swallow, so I buried my instinct and threw myself into the only thing that made sense to me at that point; the steady process of cleaning brushes, packing paint cans and breaking down my easel after an exhausting MAMM Jam performance.
THE UNDECIDED VOTER ASKS: IS NEWS MEDIA COLLUDING WITH “THE CLINTON FOUNDATION” AND OTHERS TO EXPLOIT HANDICAPPED CHILDREN, WOMEN AND VETERANS, IN GROSS VIOLATION OF PUBLIC TRUST?
“The Retarded Artist From NYC Gets Call From Mr. Bill Asking Favor To Perform For Abel Academy Kids” by Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo Vaca II
“I just ran into Taylor Swift Shabbat and Clive Davis, I thought you were catching the red eye. Where the hell are you guys?”
“We’re at the Boston Red Sox game.” Todd answered his animated friend, who was calling from a New York City Fashion Week event.
“Well get your ass over here, Beyonce and Jay-Z invited me to their crib for a V.I.P. after party tonight and they said I can bring some friends.”
“I can’t make it, the Jewish Sabbath is in a few hours and we still don’t have a place to stay. Maybe tomorrow, after Shabbat.”
“What? I thought you said your friend set you up at a beach house with a bunch of rock stars.”
“He did but his friend bailed out on us and now we’re wandering about like vagabonds.”
The crack of a wooden bat smashing a baseball over the fence for a home-run sent the sold-out crowd into a frenzy drowning out the humiliating conversation going on beside me between Todd and his V.I.P. friend in Manhattan. I could hear every word screaming out of his cell phone as my Android vibrated to alert me that my manager was calling.
“You’re not going to believe this.” My manager said when I answered her call. “Mr. Bill told me to have Todd pay for a hotel but there are no hotels, it’s season, everything is booked.”
“What?” I answered in disbelief as Todd ended his call and eavesdropped on my conversation.
“Mr. Bill said, Todd’s Jewish.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.
“Mr. Bill said, there’s no such thing as a poor Jew, therefore,” My manager sounded stunned by his logic.
“I assume, he figured…”
“I knew it. Mr. Bill’s an anti-semite! He looked at me kind of funny when we met. Stop being a cheap Jew and pay for a hotel.” Todd growled at me as he rearranged the black yamaka, adorned with the Star of David, on his head.
“Hot dogs! Peanuts! Get your hot dogs and peanuts here.” The vendor shouted as timber splintered after colliding with a baseball that flew over the fence sending hearts soaring for the World Series champions who manifested another point on the scoreboard as, exhausted, I rose, embarrassed and confused, in a sea of Boston Red Sox fans.
“That’s not happening. Todd’s not paying for the hotel. What the hell is wrong with Mr. Bill?” I shouted into the phone as the crowd around me reverberated with delight.
“Why don’t you tell him that?” My manager asked. “Isn’t Mr. Bill with you?”
“No. He said he would come by to get Todd and I before the seventh inning stretch, so we could all go out for a late lunch, it’s already the bottom of the eighth.”
“I told you, Mr. Bill ain’t coming!” Todd shouted over my shoulder into the phone. “I’m starving.”
“Get Todd a hotdog.” My manager suggested as I put her call on speakerphone.
“I’m Kosher! That dog’s not kosher! I need to follow Jewish dietary law.”
“Listen, I found a beach house for you guys. The owners are big fans and willing to trade accommodations in exchange for four tickets to the All Star MAMM Jam in Fort Myers tomorrow night. I told Mr. Bill and he said he would get back to me but I haven’t heard from him, so if you see him, tell him to call me ASAP.” My manager said before hanging up.
“Let’s get out of here.” Todd kvetched. “Shabbat starts at sunset.”
We sat in traffic for hours with all the snowbirds, waiting to hear from Mr. Bill but he never returned my calls or text messages. Finally, my manager called with the news that Mr. Bill refused to barter four tickets in exchange for safe shelter.
“He said Todd should stop being cheap and pay for a hotel.” My manager added with disgust, as I put her on speakerphone. “Mr. Bill suggested you guys stay at his house or a trailer that’s supposed to be parked in his driveway later tonight.”
“I need to find shelter before the sun goes down. ” Todd insisted. “That anti-semites home is too far away at this point, we’ll never make it before Shabbat.”
My manager promised to continue searching for hotel accommodations on the web while we dodged in and out of roadside motels without no-vacancy signs, through crawling traffic, as the sun beat down on us before beginning to set.
“There’s got to be something.” I pleaded with the motel desk clerk who, like all the other hotel clerks I’d interacted with in the twilight, informed me that because we were, “In-Season”, there were no vacancies.
“My cousin, owns a motel just over the bridge, it’s called The Welcome Inn. I will call him now to see if he has any rooms available.” The pungent smelling clerk said in an almost unintelligible East Indian accent.
“Please hurry, I think my friends going to turn into a Pumpkin if I don’t find him a place to stay before sundown.” I said, while looking out at Todd shifting nervously while reading the Torah, behind the wheel of our packed rental car in the parking lot.
“Good news.” I told Todd as I entered the car five minutes later. “We have a room at The Welcome Inn, I made reservations. It’s just over the bridge. We should make it before sunset.”
And, we did. Just as the sun began to set, we drove past the hookers and crack-heads into the parking lot of The Welcome Inn. When I opened the door to our room, the first thing I saw was graffiti. Written in black magic marker on the dark green wall, beneath the black mildew from the leaking, air-conditioning unit, were the words, “Fuck You”, staring back at me. The writing on the wall was literally a sign of things to come during my stay with The Hebrew Hammer on Shabbos at, what came to be known as, “The Unwelcome Inn”.
MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR- HUGO VACA II BEFORE GETTING ON STAGE TO PERFORM MODERN ART MUSIC MOVEMENT WITH MUSIC INDUSTRY LEGENDS TO BENEFIT CHILDREN’S CHARITY.
“I’ve seen the dark side of charity, the hypocrisy of philanthropy, enabled by weak news media and neutered journalists, that fail to tell altruistic people where their donations are really going and how little money actually goes, into helping the cause.” – Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo Vaca II
Press, Blatantly Reporting Opinion And Hyperbole As News, Has A Frustrated Public Turning To Artists, To Document Untold History, On Canvas, In Lieu Of Weak Newspaper And Television Reporting In The Age Of Donald Trump And Hillary Clinton.
In the words of the alleged-serial-killer-spinal-surgeon, operating out of the Washington D.C. Baltimore, Maryland area, Dr. Charles Edwards: “You can get away with murder because you can always count on cops being overworked, underpaid and lazy and lawyers being greedy.”
Severe cuts in staffing high-quality investigative journalists at mainstream media news outlets, portends a disturbing trend, that should concern anyone who worries about living in a functioning Democracy.
“IF A MAJOR NEWS ORGANIZATION LIKE NBC IS GOING TO REDUCE THE NUMBER, AND IT SOUNDS LIKE A SIGNIFICANT NUMBER, OF THE PEOPLE WHO GO OUT AND GATHER INFORMATION TO GO INTO THE DAILY STREAM OF NEWS, IT’S GOING TO THIN OUR KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD SOMEWHAT.” – BILL KOVACH
So, then, what is one to do in a world, where weak investigative journalists, peddle opinion as news and see “The Clinton Death List” and the World Trade Center, Building Seven, spontaneous-implosion, in New York City, on September 11, 2001, as conspiracy theories?
MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALISM PAINTS HISTORY IN A WAY THAT MAINSTREAM TELEVISION NEWS OUTLETS CAN NOT AFFORD TO DO.
Hopeless people, claiming cops don’t care and investigative journalists won’t listen, contact modern-art-gonzo journalists with stories that go unreported or woefully under-reported in weak mainstream media news outlets, due to lack of will, budget and corporate interest.
WORLD TRADE CENTER CONTEMPORARY ART MEME, EXPLORES THE FACT, THAT U.S. NEWS MEDIA, WOULD HAVE PUBLIC TRUST BELIEVE, THAT THE WORLD TRADE CENTER BUILDING SEVEN, COULD DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS.
In the way jesters, during the Dark Ages, were able to point out, that the King was not wearing any clothes, so too, modern-art-gonzo journalism is able to skim past false truths, fed in soundbites, to skeptical public trust, in creating a vernacular and visual , “Diary Of The World On Canvas”, that interprets the court of public opinion, in brief moments of time, throughout history.
“COMPLIANCE IS NOT A DESTINATION, IT’S A JOURNEY SAYS THE SECURITIES AND EXCHANGE COMMISSION OFFICE OF CREDIT RATINGS DIRECTOR TO THE UNITED SLAVES OF AMERICA.”, IS A WORK OF MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALISM CREATED BY MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II, USING BEAR STERNS STATIONARY, FROM THE OFFICE OF A SENIOR MANAGING DIRECTOR, AS CANVAS, FOR THIS MIXED MEDIA WORK OF ADHESIVE GRAFFITI FINE ART.
The world has become so immune to corruption and dishonesty that lying thieves are becoming the elected choice of people who have given up and feel safe in the status quo of false promises and exploitation.
LIKE A FLY ON THE WALL, OR, “WHERE’S WALDO”, MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALIST, VICTOR HUGO VACA II, CAN BE FOUND IN THE BACKGROUND, CONTEMPLATING LIFE’S CURIOUS MOMENTS?
Corporations, like Nestle, buy water for pennies on the dollar, from natural springs, syphoned away, by greed, from public consumption and spend millions of dollars on advertising, with U.S. news networks, while people in Flint Michigan, are poisoned by corrupt government officials, under the nose of journalists, distracted by Miley Cyrus, twerking Robin Thicke, on an awards show.
“NEWS IS ABOUT ADVERTISING AND ADVERTISING IS A BUSINESS” – VICTOR-HUGO VACA II
News media turned a blind eye to the plight of the disenfranchised without a voice, until contemporary artists, like Cher and Beyonce, started raising public awareness about the reality surrounding us all, as cultured beings, in a state of rapid change and awakening.
DETAIL FROM FEATURED PAINTING, CREATED IN 2007 AT A MODERN ART MUSIC MOVEMENT REHEARSAL WITH, MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II AND POWER, FROM RYTHMM EPKINS, “MIND, BODY AND SOUL”, BEFORE A SOLD OUT CONCERT, IN BAKERSFIELD, CALIFORNIA, TO BENEFIT MENTALLY HANDICAPPED CHILDREN.
The following is an emailed example, with the name of the sender omitted to protect sources of information, of the sorts of requests from citizens of Earth, to modern-art-gonzo-journalists, in the hopes, that their story of the human condition, will be documented in art, for future generations of investigative journalists and historians, to revisit artistic canvassed chronicles, in the pursuit of a remedy, for the growing cancer of dishonesty and corruption in the evolution of human nature:
“IN MY DIARY OF THE WORLD ON CANVAS, I PAINT WHAT I SEE, AND WHAT I SEE IS THE BEAUTIFUL CHAOS THAT SURROUNDS US ALL IN THE MULTI-UNIVERSE.”- MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II.
Hi,
My friend asked me to email you the following basic info:
– Very high profile business individuals involved
– $18 Million invested
– Potential dirty money from Mexico
– City official involved with under the table “help”
– Embezzlement
– Infringement of ownership
– Fraudulent transfer to avoid paying due to local businesses ($1.5+ MM due)
– Documents forgeries
– Known name and about to reopen under a new name within the next 2-3 months
– Currently several lawsuits already filed against various group’s entities
– Etc.
Ex-executive with thousands of supporting documents potentially ready to talk under certain conditions and guarantied multiple city publication (getting involved other journalist to publish it nationally)
Let me know if any interests.
MODERN-ART-GONZO-JOURNALIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II
“When I contacted WSVN 7 Fox News, after Hurricane Wilma, about a clear and present danger, impacting the lives of over fifteen-hundred residents, in a high rise building, destroyed by a tornado, the newsroom said: ‘Call us back when you see burning bodies flying out of the building, otherwise, it’s not news.'”. – Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo Vaca II
AWARD-WINNING FILMMAKER MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II
The plan was to release “The Blue Dress”, in the year of election 2016 with much fanfare and promotion, to expected rave reviews, regardless of political affiliation, as a smart-dark-comedy. Victor-Hugo approached the project from the perspective of the heroic everyday challenge of every man and woman attempting to maintain and safeguard any long term commitment, or relationship, like marriage, in the face of a rabid, unforgiving-public, in search of human foibles and imperfections in celebrities and public figures, so as to offset their own immediate shortcomings in life.
MAVERICK ARTIST VICTOR-HUGO VACA II : PEERING THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS INTO THE MULTI-UNIVERSE.
“As an artist, I look through the existential prism of being in the mind of Bill Clinton, a beloved and feared lawyer, politician, suspected sex-offender, elected to the most powerful position on earth, as President of the United States, in command of the worlds most powerful military force, it was definitely something I looked forward to capturing and translating into the performances of talented actors, expressed through visual metaphors, on film, with a solid soundtrack, for the Lied To Generation to consume and digest, subconsciously, for generations.” Victor-Hugo said about his plans to direct the film.
“THE CLINTON MACHINE: STOP MONICA LEWINSKY STAINS BEFORE THEY START.” BY VICTOR HUGO VACA II
Alas, as fate would have it, a week before signing the contract to start production on the dark comedy inspired, by the part of the strange Bill and Hillary Clinton love story that President Clinton conveniently left out of his forty-one minute, “I Met A Girl Speech”, at the DNC, inside the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia, PA during the 2016 Democratic National Convention, the producer died of natural causes and “The Blue Dress” was never manifested onto the big screen. “That’s too bad, because it was a great script.” Says Victor-Hugo, adding, “I would have produced a great film from that script but as the saying goes, that’s Hollywood.”
PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON – THE SEX OFFENDER SERIES
The Undecided Voter and United Slaves Of America watch the Bread and Circus perpetrated glaringly, by unapologetically biased mainstream media, as evidenced in the Wikileaks DNC Hillary Clinton Machine email leak, broadcasting Democratic elections, by the leaders of the Free World, in the New World Order, being overshadowed by the enigmatic Clinton Machine, suggesting a false narrative that, Donald Trump, is a Manchurian Candidate, working in collusion with Russians, to expose deep-rooted racism and corruption within core leadership of the U.S. Democratic party.
THE UNDECIDED VOTER
The Undecided Voter digests the impact of Wikileaks DNC Hillary Clinton Machine email leak, revealing ingrained anti-semitism and racism within the top branches of leadership inside the Clinton Machine.
WIKILEAKS REVEALS DNC CLINTON MACHINE EMAILS SUGGESTING DEEP ROOTED RACISM IN DEMOCRATIC PARTY LEADERSHIP
The Undecided Voter contemplates the severe impact of National Security issues that demand FBI investigation and prosecution by the Attorney General, if the security of the United States Of America, is ever to be taken seriously by any world power again; in particular, highly negligent intelligence issues, surrounding the hacking of DNC and Secretary Of State, Hillary Clinton’s, private server, which the presidential candidate admittedly kept, when Secretary Of State, without permission, beside her toilet, without any leader-like consideration of public trust and national security.
CAN HILLARY CLINTON, AS COMMANDER IN CHIEF, BE BRIBED BY RUSSIAN HACKERS?
The Undecided Voter wonders about the very real possibility that an adversarial world power, like Russia or China, could have hacked the unauthorized private server containing above-top-secret-classified-information that then, Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, knowingly kept beside her toilet in the bathroom of her home, without permission, when she was entrusted by the American public, to lead, serve and protect American children and families, by safeguarding the highest level of National Security secrets, against penetration and manipulation, by the most dangerous enemies of our United States.
CAN CHINESE HACKERS BRIBE PRESIDENT HILLARY CLINTON OVER THE MISSING EMAILS FROM HER UNAUTHORIZED CLINTON MACHINE PERSONAL SERVER?
The Undecided Voter, who understands, that the concept of duty can not be taught, it must be lived and military personnel and veterans, who know the meaning of loyalty and the penalty for violating responsibility and duty, such as safeguarding national security, are wary of trusting Hillary Clinton, as Commander In Chief, of the worlds most powerful military force, with above-top-secret National Security Clearance.
THE CLINTON MACHINE CENSORS TRUTH IN FAVOR OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS ON FACEBOOK & INSTAGRAM.
The Undecided Voter realizes that national security issues for the DNC, FBI and the CIA should not only be whether Russia is involved in cyber-espionage exposing racist, anti-semitic, anti-atheist and politically incorrect e-mails, delivered to and from from high ranking leadership, inside the heart and soul of the Democratic party; national security issues should also include finding the more than thirty thousand potentially top-secret emails destroyed by Hillary Clinton and her unauthorized-to-do-so, Clinton-Machine-lawyers.
THE CLINTON-MACHINE-KOOL-AID SERVES TO DISTRACT MAINSTREAM- MEDIA-UNCLE-TOM’S-OF-COMMON-SENSE FROM INVESTIGATING DANGEROUS NATIONAL SECURITY TOP SECRET EMAIL ISSUES AS UNDERSTOOD AND APPRECIATED BY THE UNDECIDED VOTER, MILLENNIALS, HISPANICS & BLACKS WITH COMMON SENSE.
The Undecided Voter understands that Hillary Clinton’s hacked emails could serve to potentially blackmail the Commander In Chief, if any of those above-top-secret emails were hacked by any adversarial nations. For that and other reasons, the so-called-party-of-inclusion is having a hard time feeding truth camouflaged in chocolate scented feces, to The Undecided Voter.
UNITED STATES NAVAL ACADEMY (USNA) MIDSHIPMEN OFFICERS FROM THE BRIGADE OF MIDSHIPMAN POINT TO THE HONOR CONCEPT – “DUTY CAN NOT BE TAUGHT, IT MUST BE LIVED.”
The Undecided Voter and Millennials are less worried about Donald Trump being a Russian Manchurian Candidate and more interested in knowing what National Security Information was inside the more than thirty-three thousand pages of information Hillary Clinton and the Clinton Machine lawyers destroyed to hide evidence of treasonous behavior when Hillary Clinton took the calculated action of placing an illegal personal server, containing top-secret United States National Security, in her home, unprotected and without safeguards against foreign hackers, in a clear violation of national security policy.
THE HILLARY CLINTON MACHINE – CRACKHEAD JESUS: DELETE YOUR ACCOUNT
The Undecided Voter thinks it is both unsettling and creepy to hear Bill Clinton describe how he stalked Hillary Clinton after first laying eyes on her and contemplates the logistical problems that will be faced by the United States Secret Service and Government attorneys fencing off the potential threat of having to deal with the reality of Bill Clinton and Anthony Weiner, two public sex offenders and perverts, stalking the White House Halls behind the President of the United States and Huma Abedin.
The creepy-rapey-guy feeling, that The Female Undecided Voter gets, when listening to Bill Clinton talk openly, about how he stalked Hillary Rodham, before grabbing her and making her his wife, before sodomizing a young intern named Monica Lewinsky, as Hillary Clinton’s husband and Commander In Chief, in the White House Oval Office. So, who’s Monica Lewinsky, in the lost chapter of the twisted Bill and Hillary Clinton Love Story?
MONICA LEWINSKY: CRACKHEAD JESUS IS COMING ON THE BILL & HILLARY CLINTON LOVE STORY
Monica Lewinsky and Hillary Clinton, technically, are the women responsible for manifesting the reality of entitlement for unsupervised teens and preteens to look up at their shocked conservative, parents walking into a latch-key-kids after-school-blow-job-party saying, “But Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, according to President Bill Clinton and the Democratic Presidential Candidate Hillary Clinton, a blow job is, technically, not sex.”
Women React To Bill & Hillary Clinton’s Love Story At The Democratic National Convention In Philadelphia.
Or, teens on their rug-burned knees looking up, with wide open innocent eyes, telling their elders to: “Lighten up, Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa; we were just taking a break, from talking about how progressive it is, to have Hillary Clinton as a Presidential candidate and role model for young boys and girls and we figured we’d do some oral exercises, before learning important stuff, about Hillary Clinton, as a leader and role model, for women, on the internet.” All said, while wiping their Daddy’s-Little-Girl’s mouths, on Tommy Hilfiger t-shirts.
HILLARY CLINTON CRACKHEAD JESUS
“My birth name is Victor-Hugo Vaca Jr. On stage, when I am performing with the Modern Art Music Movement, I am known as, The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo. When I am manifesting creations in the multi-universe as a modern-art-gonzo-journalist, my job is not to be politically correct, it is to witness, observe, analyze and document so as to colorfully communicate the wisdom of ages, for seven generations forward. The point of my artwork, my Diary-Of-The-World-On-Canvas, is really, to make everyone think outside the box.”
This work of modern-art-gonzo-journalism is dedicated to victims of domestic abuse, both male and female and abused children around the world. If you are a victim of Domestic Abuse get help by contacting The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). If you are a victim of child abuse, or witness child abuse, contact Childhelp at 1-800-422-4453.
Parental Advisory Explicit Content
“It’s not about breaking up, it’s about moving forward.” – Victor-Hugo Vaca II
Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo Vaca II (Photo Credit: Award Winning Director, Screenwriter, Producer-Alyn Darnay)
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Scene 1
Opera Diva Love
I was with the Opera Diva the day I met the Countess, at a formal charity event for battered women and children. I witnessed a Phoenix rising in stiletto high heels, before the Countess stole my heart and propelled my curious existence into the strangest love story ever told.
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Scene 2
The Undecided Voter
Artist wearing professional headphones and smoking bong, edits soundtrack on computer while watching news and porn on split screen. Unbeknownst to the Artist, a swat team with bomb sniffing dogs circles his home. Cops bang on front door and ring doorbell frantically.
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Scene 3
Opera Diva Skyline
Opera Diva gets sloppy drunk at charity event, while the Artist mingles his way towards the Countess, who is sitting alone on a park bench in the lush courtyard, beside a fountain and burning tiki torches. Their eyes meet before the Artist introduces himself to the Countess and they start a lively conversation that leads to a six-year relationship.
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Scene 4
Swatting
Artist exhales cloud of smoke while removing headphones, oblivious to Swat team and bomb sniffing dogs surrounding his home. Television shouts breaking-news of criminals, impersonating police officers, on the loose in local area, robbing homes and victimizing people with respect for authority, as the Artist calmly makes his way to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, while scrolling news of innocent people being shot by rookie police officers, the Artist hears loud knocking and doorbell ringing incessantly. The Artist wipes, flushes and stumbles out of the bathroom while lifting his underwear and pants expecting to find his girlfriend, The Countess, locked out, with groceries at the front door.
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Scene 5
Opera Diva
The Artist says goodnight to the Countess with a kiss on her cheek, after spending a lovely evening together, at a Charity event for battered women and children. As she walks away, toward the valet, an angry gay man, arm in arm with drunken, sobbing, Opera Diva, approaches the Artist shouting, “Instead of flirting, why don’t you take care of your wife, here!”
“She’s not my wife.” The Artist says, while propping up the Opera Diva and holding her steady, in a comforting embrace, before escorting her to a waiting car at valet, loading her into passenger seat gently and driving off at conclusion of party.
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Scene 6
The Artist Contemplates Death
The Artist sees hulk in dark sunglasses staring back at him through open living room window as he crawls on floor tightening his belt.
“Open the door! This is the police!” Cops shout.
“What’s going on?” The terrified Artist asks while crawling out of view past the kitchen into the bedroom where Swat team in body armor stares back at him with weapons drawn through open windows.
“What are you doing on the floor? Get up! Open the door! We need to talk to you! Now!” Cop shouts at Artist, while filming inside of house with body cam.
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Scene 7
Towers Of Pleasure
Artist makes love to Opera Diva. His mind is elsewhere.
(ARTIST VOICEOVER) “Her legs were like skyscrapers resting on my shoulders as I thrust myself into her long lean body on the night I met my Muse, The Countess, at a charity event in The Grove.”
Opera Diva and Artist connect in the moment, to reach mutual orgasm and collapse, in a puddle of human liquids.
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Scene 8
Artist Contemplates Death Too
Television shouts news about local state of high alert and emergency declared by Florida Governor following Orlando Terrorist attack at Pulse Nightclub and warning of former inmates impersonating law enforcement officers in the viewing area as Swat team, with guns drawn shout at Artist cowering on bedroom floor beside bed. “Open the door, now! We want to talk to you!”
“We are talking! What do you want?” The Artist asks while crawling away from Swat covered windows in the bedroom to Swat covered windows in the living room.
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Scene 9
Red Head Aging Universe
“Thanks for a lovely evening. Perhaps our paths will cross again in a few months, when I return from touring Asia and Australia with the Metropolitan Opera.” The Opera Diva says before bending over to kiss the Artist goodbye, walking out the door in high heels and a sparkling, wrinkled, evening gown to her car at midday.
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Scene 10
Romeo The Bomb Sniffing Dog
Swat team with bomb sniffing dogs surround artist’s house as he crawls around in a panic trying to get out of the line of fire inside his home.
“Open the door right now! We need to talk to you!” Police shout.
“Do you have a warrant?” The Artist asks.
“If you don’t cooperate, we will get one!” Cops shout.
“For what? I haven’t done anything.” The Artist replies.
“Assault and battery. Your wife says you beat her up. Open the door, now!” Cops shout while banging on the door.
“I’m not married! You have the wrong guy!” The Artist shouts to armed officers of the law staring back at him through open windows with guns drawn.
The Countess calls the Artist and asks, “Would you like to attend a seminar on the dark side of reincarnation, with me, this evening, at the Kabbalah Center, where Madonna goes?”
“I’d love to but my car is in the shop for repairs.” The Artist says.
“No worries. Give me your address. I’ll pick you up at three.” The Countess replies.
“I’m reaching for my cell phone to call 911. Please don’t shoot me!” The Artist says as he rises from the ground cautiously with arms up, before pointing to his right pocket in front of nervous police officers watching his every move from outside his house, through clear windows, with guns pointed at his chest.
“We are 911!” Cops shout.
“I don’t know that! I’m calling 911, please don’t shoot!” The Artist says as he slowly reaches inside his pocket to grab his cell phone thinking, this may be the last moment of his life.
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Scene 13
Crackheadjesus Attacked Me With A Steaknife
“So, you were attacked, in your home, by an actor, with a steak-knife, after filming Crackhead Jesus: The Movie?” The Countess asks the Artist, as she drives to the Kabbalah Center.
“Truth is stranger than fiction.” The Artist says.
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Scene 14
The Fourth Amendment
“Open the door! We just want to make sure you are okay!” Cops shout at frightened Artist as he speaks nervously to 911 operator on his cell phone in his living room.
“People claiming to be police are at my door demanding entry into my house without a warrant!”
“Calm down, Sir.” The 911 Operator says.
“Calm down? They have guns pointed at me.” The Artist replies, shaking with fear.
“Sir, were you involved in domestic abuse assault and battery with your wife this morning?” The 911 Operator asks.
“No! I’m not married!” Artist says while cops shout, “We’ll come back with a warrant if we have to, open the door!”
“Do that, because I’m not letting you in!” The Artist shouts.
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Scene 15
How Dare You
Giant, overweight, Actor, with crazy-eyes, bursts through Artist’s bedroom door, wielding a steak-knife and shouting, “How dare you try to come between me and my wife!”
“Put the knife down!” The Artist says with authority.
“You’re trying to break us up!”
“No!”
“Then why would you tell her I raped an actress on set?”
“That’s not what I said! Put the knife down!” The Artist says as the angry actor swings a steak-knife while Artist retreats backwards towards master-bathroom.
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Scene 16
See Something Say Something
Swat team surrounds house and bangs on front door of Artist’s home, as he speaks to 911 Operator who asks, “So, you witnessed child abuse and incest in your home, have you reported what you told me to Child Protective Services?”
“No.” The intimidated Artist says, staring back at scowl faced, armed officers gazing through his windows.
“Why not?” Asks the 911 Operator.
“I thought my girlfriend would take care of it, it’s her grandchildren.” The Artist answers without hesitation.
“Well, I’m duty-bound to report what you just told me, if you don’t.” The 911 Operator says.
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“I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!” The Actor says as he lunges towards Artist brandishing a steak knife.
“Calm down! It’s not what you think!” The Artist shouts as he side steps the Actor’s attack.
Frustrated, the Actor punches hole in wall causing his hand to bleed onto steak knife.
“You are a dead man!” The furious Actor shouts at retreating Artist.
“No!” The Actor’s Wife shouts. “Please stop!”
With nowhere to run or hide, the Artist stands his ground against the mad Actor.
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Scene 18
Romeo The Bomb Sniffing Dog Too
Swat team surrounding house bangs on door shouting, “We’ll be back with a warrant for your arrest.”
“They’re leaving.” The 911 Operator says to petrified Artist as Swat team exits with bomb sniffing dogs. “But I suggest you call Child Protective Services, first thing in the morning, to file a report, so they can investigate your allegations of child abuse; otherwise, I have to report you as a co-conspirator. I also suggest you go the police station, ASAP, to give your side of the story, because your domestic partner has made some serious allegations against you.”
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Scene 19
Get Out Of My House
“Get out of my house!” The Artist says, as he walks confidently past enraged Actor waving steak-knife at him as Actor’s Wife yells, “No!”.
The Actor punches another hole in wall, with his bloody fist, leaving red stains, splattered on white wall, as Artist makes his way into living room past hallway.
“I invite you to stay, with your cat, as guests in my home, and you threaten to kill me!” The Artist shouts at the Actor and his Wife, as she takes the knife from her Husbands bloody hand while eating a sausage. “Get out!”
“Fuck you!” The Actor and his Wife shout back at the Artist in stereo.
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Scene 20
The Long Arm Of The Law
Artist walks into police station and approaches Front Desk Officer, sitting behind bullet proof glass.
“I’d like to file a police report.”
“About what?” The cranky Front Desk Officer asks.
“I was just swatted by my girlfriend. She filed a false police report.”
“Excuse me, Sir, I heard about that incident and I can assure you, the Police were there to protect you.” The Front Desk Officer says.
“Protect me? With guns drawn? Is that how cops protect citizens?”
“Your wife made some serious allegations.”
“She’s not my wife, I told you, she’s my girlfriend.”
“Whatever, your girlfriend said you have bombs and an arsenal of weapons. She also said you killed both of her dogs and tried to stab her in her sleep.” The Front Desk Officer, with a raised eyebrow and accusing look, says to the dumbfounded Artist, under camera surveillance.
“Well, she lied.”
“You’ll have to come back Monday after 3PM. The officers who took the original report are off for the next three days.”
“But I’m the victim, I’d like to file my own report.”
“You’re a piece of shit!” The Actor says to Artist as his Wife loads caged cat into overstuffed SUV in front of Artist’s home at twilight.
“Yeah. You’re a real piece of shit.” The Actor’s Wife says to Artist, as she struggles into passenger seat, while lowering the vehicle suspension, with her obesity.
The Actor and his Wife stick their middle fingers out the window, as tires tear up lawn, screeching burnt rubber onto road as car drives off in a cloud of smoke.
“So, tell me what you witnessed?” The CPS officer asks the Artist who recalls events in flashbacks.
“It was our sixth-year anniversary. My girlfriend’s daughter had just divorced a pedophile that she had procreated two kids with, when she met a stranger on line that she wanted to have sex with.”
“Your girlfriend’s daughter had children with a pedophile?”
“My girlfriend claims her son-in law is a convicted sex offender pedophile and former gang member who is now a born again Christian.”
“Of course and his ex-wife wanted to have sex with a stranger she met on the internet?”
“The Granddaughter claims her father and grandfather are upset because the ink was not even dry on the final divorce papers before her mother started sleeping around.”
“Your girlfriend’s Granddaughter told you this?”
“My girlfriend’s Granddaughter told me a lot of things.”
Film crew sets up lighting and soundcheck for scene in fancy mirrored public Ladies restroom.
“Okay, so this is the rape scene. Let’s tone it down from the original script and do it like we did at rehearsal.” The Artist confidently commands cast and crew.
“Quite on the set! Crackhead Jesus: The Movie, rape scene, take one.” The Director’s Assistant says while snapping film slate.
“Action!” The Artist shouts.
Actors commence tense scene surrounded by film crew on closed set.
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Scene 24
GrandMa’s Stool
Inside Police Station Child Protective Services Division Artist recalls incident in voice over flashback.
“I was in the kitchen making breakfast when I noticed my Girlfriend’s five-year old Grandson defecating in front of me.”
“Are you shitting yourself?” Artist asks fully clothed Boy whose eyes are watery and face is red from straining to pass bowel movement while standing upright.
Diarrhea runs down the boys shorts, covering his legs and socks in feces, as bacon sizzles on stovetop.
“Grandma, he’s pooping himself again!” The Boy’s nine-year old Sister shouts while pointing a finger at her Brother and laughing.
“He said shitting.” The Girl says, pointing to Artist as her Grandmother enters room in panic.
“Is this what you want, Bitch?” Actor growls as he manhandles Actress on camera, before she slaps his face, as scripted, during intense rape scene.
“I thought you loved me! You used me! Asshole!” Actress storms out of frame with tears in her eyes, running mascara and tattered clothing.
“Cut!” The Artist shouts. “Excellent!”
“Can we do that one more time?” The Actress asks while Makeup-Artist cleans her face. “I think I can do better.”
“Is that okay with you?” Artist asks Actor.
“Sure.” Actor replies, with a big grin on his lipstick-smeared face.
*************************************************************************
Scene 26
Living A Mythological Life
Artists’s kitchen filled with smoke and the smell of bacon, eggs and feces causes fire alarm to scream over Granddaughters shouts of, “Grandma, he shit himself again!”
“Don’t say shit!” The Countess scolds her Granddaughter with an evil eye and a scowling look.
“But Grandpa said it first!” The Granddaughter says with big innocent eyes while pointing at Artist.
“I’m not your Grandfather.” The Artist says while removing burnt bacon from frying pan.
“How dare you curse in front of the children!” The Countess howls.
“But, he shit himself while I was making bacon.”
“You burned the bacon! Ha! Ha!” The Granddaughter laughs at confused Artist.
“You’re an asshole!” The Countess says to Artist while grabbing Grandson covered in feces and taking him to bathroom leaving behind a trail of dark, green, diarrhea on plush white carpet.
Inside smoke filled kitchen, Countess returns from bathroom to ask Artist, “Where’s his clothes?”
“You’re asking me?”
“He has no clothes.”
“What do you mean he has no clothes?”
Grandson runs around house naked yelling, “Penis! Penis! Penis!”
“His overnight bag is full of toys; no clean clothes!” The Countess shouts as her Granddaughter screams, “It’s Naked Man!”
“Your daughter didn’t pack a change of clothes for your Grandson?” The Artist asks as the bare-assed-Boy somersaults and runs around the house proclaiming, “Naked Man! Naked Man! Naked Man!”
The Countess and Artist arrive at Kabbalah Center for seminar on the dark side of reincarnation.
“So you told the Actor’s Wife he raped his Costar?” The Countess asks the Artist.
“Not exactly.” The Artist recalls in flashbacks.
Inside Artist’s house, the Actor’s grossly obese wife shoves a hot dog in her mouth while talking to Artist in kitchen. “Let me take care of you. You must be so stressed out. Let me give you an orgasm.”
Artist backs away from Actor’s Wife, as she slides her tongue from cheek to cheek, wiping away mayonnaise and mustard from the sides of her mouth.
Inside living room of Artist’s house, Naked Man reigns supreme as Artist plays the piano. Countess, Artist and Granddaughter watch in horror as Grandson grabs long wooden flute and proceeds to masturbate with instrument as his Sister screams and Grandmother gasps.
“Uh, is anyone going to stop this kid from masturbating in front of us?” The Artist says while playing piano.
“Don’t say that in front of the Kids!” The Countess shouts at Artist.
“So let me get this straight.” The Artist sings while playing piano. “He can masturbate in front of us but I can’t say the word to describe what he is doing.”
“What’s masturbate, Grandma?” The nine-year old girl asks Countess as her nude five-year old brother runs to the piano and starts slapping his penis on piano keys, shouting, “Naked Man! Naked Man!”, while Artist tickles ebony and ivory without skipping a beat.
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Scene 31
Let Me Ease Your Stress
Inside Artist’s house, dining room, Artist tells Actor’s Wife, “Your Husband’s co-star is accusing him of rape.”
“What?”
“I know, I tried explaining to her that it was a rape scene but she insisted I talk to you and your husband before tonights award ceremony because you are producers on this project and well, honestly, I don’t know what she wants.”
“That bitch is crazy!”
“I figured we could discuss this with your husband over dinner, so we don’t cause a scene at the awards ceremony.” The Artist says to Actor’s Wife as she stares out window to see her husband flipping steaks on barbecue grill in backyard.
Inside living room of Artist’s house, Countess and her Granddaughter watch as Grandson rubs his penis on Artist’s arm as he plays piano.
“Okay, this really has got to stop! Now he’s rubbing his dick on me!” The Artist says to Countess while her Grandson sings, “Naked Man! I’m Naked Man!” and Granddaughter looks on in shock.
“Don’t say dick!” The Countess screams at Artist, doing nothing to stop her Grandson’s perverse behavior.
“He said dick!” The Granddaughter says in amazement as her naked brother shouts, “Dick! Dick! Dick!” while slamming his penis all over the piano keys.
Inside Kabbalah Center auditorium, the Countess and Artist meet Philip Berg an American Rabbi and dean of the worldwide Kabbalah Center. The Countess is starstruck in the presence of this Holy Man.
“This man is your Soulmate.” Berg says to Countess as he stares into Artists eyes while shaking his hand firmly for a length of time. “His love for you is eternal. He is sent to challenge, awaken and stir different parts of you in order for your soul to transcend to a higher level of consciousness and awareness.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Sir.” The Artist says as both men loosen their grip on each other.
“The honor is mine. You are a visionary. Your work is prophetic with divine inspiration. Keep Shining, Brother. Flow.” Berg says to the Artist, before walking onstage in front of a packed auditorium to begin his lecture on the dark side of reincarnation.
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Scene 34
Fruit Doesn’t Fall Far From Tree
“Can you watch the kids while I go buy Naked Man some clothes?” The Countess asks the Artist as he cleans up the kitchen and her Grandson streaks across the house chasing his sister shouting, “I’m Naked Man!”
“No. Your daughter’s kids are out of control.”
“Please, I can’t take him to the store naked.”
“Your daughter’s more concerned about getting laid than taking proper care of her children. What kind of mother sends her maladjusted kids on an overnight, without clothes?”
“Asshole! Don’t say, laid, in front of the children!” Countess screams as her Grandson fondles his Sister in front of her and the Artist.
“Our totality must include a dark side if we are to be whole.” Says American Rabbi Philip Berg at the conclusion of his dissertation on spiritual afterlife at the Kabbalah Center before exiting the stage to a standing ovation.
“That was fantastic.” The Countess says to Artist who replies, “Interesting.”, as they both applaud and make their way out of the packed auditorium to the parking lot.
“Would you like to come back to my place for a drink?” The Countess asks the Artist, who answers, “Sure.”, with a smile as he opens the drivers-side car door for the Countess before walking around her clean, red Volvo, to sit in the passengers seat.
*************************************************************************
Scene36
What, Me Worry?
“Sweetheart, are you done in the shower, we have to go get your Brother some clothes at the store.” The Countess hollered to her Granddaughter as her Grandson in a long, white, t-shirt bursts through the closed bathroom door, revealing his Sister standing naked and exposed in front of the Artist and her Grandmother.
“Boobies!” The Brother shouts at his Sister, while pointing at her bare chest, as she screams in vulnerable embarrassment, while staring, naked, into the Artist’s shocked, wide-open, eyes, in front of her Grandmother, the Countess.
The Artist and Countess reach orgasm together before resting side-by-side in her King-Size bed.
“That was incredible. Thanks.” The Artist says as the Countess rises from bed naked and walks towards closet.
“I want to show you something.” The Countess says, as she stands naked on her toes to retrieve a large box from the top shelf in her closet. The Artist notices and reacts physically to her erect nipples and hairy bush as she brings the box to bed with her, noticing his bulge rising from underneath her silk sheets he inquires, “Are we about to get, really kinky, now?”
“I thought we already did.” The Countess says, laying the box gently beside his excitement, before opening it.
“We’re back!” The Grandson shouts, as he bursts through the front door sporting new clothes. “Look what Grandma got me.”
“That’s just great.” The Artist says, feigning interest before boy punches him in the groin, manifesting pain and shock that causes Artist to shout, “What the fuck?”, while recoiling.
“Stop cursing in front of the children!” The Countess shouts.
“But he punched me in the nuts!”
“He said nuts, Grandma. Is that the same as balls?” The Granddaughter asks her Grandmother while pointing at the Artist, as her little Brother guffaws, before punching the Artist’s testicles again.
“What? I can’t say nuts either?” The Artist asks Countess with watery eyes before falling to the floor. “What the fuck?”
The Countess goes through her last pile of photo’s with the weary Artist, revealing her rich, celebrated history and international circle of influence including celebrities and world leaders.
“So, you’re telling me you created American Idol and The Bachelor?” The Artist asks while nibbling on the Countess’ perky nipples.
“Yes, but I never got credit or any money for it, because Hollywood assholes and their lawyers stole my ideas at a pitch meeting with network executives.”
“Why didn’t you sue?”
“I tried but I didn’t stand a chance against corporate lawyers on payroll; I’m just a poor little rich girl.” The Countess said, before grabbing the Artist’s stiff manhood, while kissing his lips.
Granddaughter approaches Artist in his office as he works on his computer. “Can I talk to you about something private?” She asks.
“Sure.”
“My Dad and Grandfather are very upset with my Mom because she’s been spending so much time on the computer meeting strange men and sleeping with them instead of taking care of my Brother and I.”
“So you are an actor, producer and an award-winning film director.” The Countess asks Artist while they lie naked in bed together in her beachfront mansion.
“And an award-winning artist.”
“And a politician as well?”
“I used to be, not anymore.”
“And a businessman?”
“True.”
“So, you’re a jack of all trades and master of none?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“So, what else are you good at?”
“Well, here, let me show you.” The Artist says before crawling under silk sheets to perform cunnilingus on the Countess.
*************************************************************************
Scene 42
Modern Man Modern Woman
“A girl in my class says men can get pregnant and have babies, is that true?”
“Sounds like your friend knows a thing or two about being transgender.”
“What’s transgender?”
“What are you teaching my Granddaughter?” The Countess asks Artist as she enters the room.
“She asked me a question.” The Artist answers.
“You’re not the one to be teaching her about sex.”
“I’m not. Obviously, your Daughter’s not either. She’s too busy having sex with strangers online to teach her children about nature.”
“Sex! Sex! Sex!” The Grandson shouts, as he runs into the room and slaps his Sister’s ass.
*************************************************************************
Scene 43
I Bet On America
“That was lovely, thank you. I see you are talented with your tongue as well, young man.”
“Glad I could be of service to you.” The Artist says after wiping his mouth on her sheets.
“So, what made you become a politician?”
“I was young, dumb and idealistic. I thought I could make a difference.”
“You sound jaded. What happened?”
“I was offered a bribe by an alleged serial-killer-spinal-surgeon.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Mister, now I’m curious; Explain.” The Countess demands as she snuggles comfortably into the Artist’s bare chest.
*************************************************************************
Scene 44
Reputation Is Wealth
“My Daughter will be here any minute to pick up her kids, can you watch them while I take a shower?”
“I’d rather not.” The Artist tells Countess as he watches children play in yard from his office window.
“Don’t be a dick. Just do it.” The Countess says as she disrobes into shower.
“Where’s their deadbeat dad?” The Artist shouts loud enough for Countess to hear him in the shower.
“The kids mother and father are having sex with strangers, while we babysit their children on our six year anniversary; am I the only one who sees something wrong with that?” Artist says as he watches Brother hurl rocks and sticks at his tormented Sister in the yard.
*************************************************************************
Scene 45
Woman 2 Infinity
Voice over flashback as the Artist recalls history for the Countess.
“I was a millionaire businessman in my late twenties, when I fell in love with a woman I met at an open house for real estate investors in a high-rise luxury building.”
Buxom blonde wearing a label reading, “Hello My Name Is Godess”, on her heaving breast, grabs Artist by the hand and leads him to her Girlfriend, sitting alone at bar beside neon lit infinity pool at night.
“Let me introduce you to my friend. She’s not a real estate agent but she needs to get laid, it’s been a while.” Goddess says before introducing the Artist to her beautiful friend.
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Scene 46
Seven Deadly Sins
Brother chases Sister into house and assaults her in front of the Artist. Sister is hit so hard by Brother that she doubles over in pain onto couch and bites the pillow to muffle her screams of pain.
Brother looks at Artist with innocent eyes and says, “Please don’t tell.”.
Sister wipes tears from her eyes and says the same to Artist as Countess walks into the room with towel on her head asking, “What’s going on out here?”
“You know, I don’t normally do this?” Muse says to Artist, as he opens passenger side door of his Lexus convertible, a DVD case titled, “Anal Intruders #57”, falls out of car onto pavement.
Embarrassed, the Artist replies, “You know, that’s not mine?”
“I guess we’re even then.” The Muse says, as she picks up the DVD and inspects packaging.
“I’ll tell you the story on the way to your place.” Artist says, as he closes car door, after Muse settles into seat.
“The story of Anal Intruders 57; I can’t wait.” The Muse says slyly as Artist starts the engine.
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Scene 48
The Dead Cock
“Mom’s home!” Grandson shouts as his mother pulls into driveway with Internet Lover.
Artist goes to open door and sees Internet Lover slap kids mother on ass while saying, “I can’t wait to tap that sweet ass again, Mama!”
“And eat my pussy; I love the way you eat my …” The kids Mother stops when she realizes Artist is standing at entryway watching.
“Oh! Hello.” She says to Artist. “We brought you some soda pop.”
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Scene 49
Full Moon Beach
“So you evicted a seventy year old woman with an extensive porn collection?”
“I had to, she wanted to pay rent in blow jobs.” The Artist tells Muse as he navigates Ocean Drive with the top down under full moon light. “Bank of America doesn’t take that sort of payment on mortgages.”
“So how many properties do you own?”
“Twelve. It’s a pain the ass, though, no pun intended.” Artist says to Muse holding Anal Intruders #57 in her lap as they both laugh.
“Tell me about it.” The Muse says.
“Well, one tenant told me she couldn’t pay rent, because her son had been decapitated and needed the money for his funeral. I mean, what am I supposed to say to that?” Artist asks as he pulls up to Muse’s apartment building on the beach.
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Scene 50
The Sex Offender
“So, how was your 5k run for charity?” Artist asks kids Mother as she washes vegetables at kitchen sink for salad and Countess slaves over burners on stove while Granddaughter twerks in front of Internet Lover and her Brother in living room.
“What?” The kids Mother says, taken aback by the question. “Oh, we only ran 1k.”
“Really, what did you do the rest of the time?” Artist inquires while watching Internet Lover enjoying the nine-year olds provocative dance in front of him.
“We found stuff to do. Want to hear a joke?” The kids Mother asks in a quick change of subject. Without waiting for an answer, she barrels into her comedy routine. “This guy and his girlfriend are fighting, she says, “I’m breaking up with you.” “Why?” He asks. She says, ”Because you are a pedophile.” He says, “Pedophile? Hmmm, that’s an awfully big word for a ten year old.”
The Artist looks at her stunned, without laughing.
“I told that to my employees at T-Mobile. They loved it. Okay, here’s another one: What type of shoes do pedophiles wear?” The kids Mother asks the speechless Artist before answering, “White Vans. Get it? Pedophiles drive around in white vans.”
“You’re a manager at T-mobile and you tell your workers pedophile jokes?” Artist asks kids Mother as Granddaughter approaches him dancing seductively.
“What’s a pedophile?” Granddaughter asks Artist, who pauses before answering to take in his surroundings and situation.
“Your Father.” The Artist replies.
“How dare you!” The Countess shouts from kitchen immediately.
“I mean, ask your Father.” Artist corrects himself to no avail.
“That’s not what you meant!” The Countess scolds Artist.
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Your daughter marries a convicted sex-offender pedophile, has two children with him, divorces him, starts whoring around with strangers on the internet using charity as an excuse to do so and tells pedophile jokes at work to her employees and in my home, in front of her mother and children, but I’m the bad guy?”
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Scene 51
Money Backed By Faith In Federal Reserve
Artist arrives at fourplex in Lexus convertible to collect rent from his tenants. He knocks on first door and sees disheveled tenant making his way out back window of apartment. Artist catches up with him before both feet hit the ground.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I heard you knocking at the door.”
“So you climbed out the window?”
“The front door is locked.”
“So why didn’t you open it?”
“The window is jammed.”
“You just climbed out of it.”
“I know but the door is locked.”
“Listen, I’m just here to collect the rent.”
“I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean you don’t have it? You are two months late now.”
“Can I pay you in weed?”
“No! You can’t pay me in weed! The mortgage company doesn’t accept weed as a payment.”
“How about crack?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I have cocaine if you want.”
“I don’t want drugs. I want you to get the fuck out of here.”
“You can’t evict me. I know my rights. I have ninety days.”
“I’m calling the cops.”
“They can’t do shit without a warrant. Besides, I’ll tell them it’s yours and they’ll confiscate your place as a drug house.” Tenant pulls three crumpled, one-hundred dollar bills, from his pocket and tosses them at Artist. “Here, I’ll pay you the rest later. Go fuck yourself!”
Artist picks money up from floor as he watches his tenant run away out the back fence door.
“Why can’t you be more of a man, like him?” Granddaughter asks Artist while sitting on her Mother’s Internet Lover’s lap.
The Artist pauses to look at Internet Lover smiling while young girl sits on his lap in front of him as Countess and her Daughter set table and prepare meal for serving.
“You mean why don’t I father illegitimate children with different women out of wedlock? Why am I not a deadbeat dad? Or, why am I not screwing your mother?” The Artist says as the Countess announces, “ Okay, everyone, dinner is served. Let’s go, everyone to the dinner table, including you, young man.” She says to her Grandson as he humps her leg.
“Who’s going to say Grace?” The born-again Christian Daughter asks as she plays footsy with her Internet Lover under the table and her son picks his nose while his sister winks at the Artist.
“Why don’t you say a prayer for us?” The Countess asks the Artist.
“Dear God, help us all.” The Artist prays.
“That’s it?” The Countess says.
“What more do you want?” The Artist replies as the Grandson wipes his finger on the tablecloth.
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Scene 53
Working Women
Artist knocks on second door of fourplex.
Two young, scantily clad Russian girls open door and proceed to seduce the Artist.
“I’m here to collect the rent.”
“Threesome?” The petite Girl says in a thick Russian accent as her Roommate rubs the Artists’s crotch over his dress pants.
“I’d love to but Bank Of America doesn’t accept sexual favors on mortgage payments.”
“No money. Love.” The Roomate says as she unzips his pants in an accent so thick he can barely understand what she is saying. “We give you good love.”
“I’m sure of that.” The Artist says, zipping his pants up while pushing the girls off him.
“You gay? Sissy-boy?” The petite Russian says mockingly.
“I’m not gay, I’m your landlord and I’m here to collect rent not screw around.”
The Roomate walks over to a coffee can in the kitchen and takes out some cash which she hands to the Artist saying, “Rest later or blowjobs now?”
The Artist takes money and looks into camera with raised eyebrow, breaking the wall between artist and audience, as both girls drop to their knees in front of him.
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Scene 54
The 3 Muses 2016
“Mommy, Daddy says you are Mama number two and my step-brothers mother is Mama number one. I thought you said she was Mama number two.” Granddaughter says to her Mother at dinner table surrounded by Brother, Grandmother, Artist and Internet Lover.
“She is sweetheart, I’ll always be Mama number one.”
“Then why does Daddy call you Baby Mama number two.”
“Because your father’s an asshole. Eat your salad.”
“You know, that is confusing. All these Baby Mama’s and Baby Daddy’s, it’s hard to make sense of it all and I’m an adult.” The Artist says after sipping water from glass.
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” The Countess’ Daughter snaps while slamming her fork on table, making the silverware rattle.
“Actually, your Mother and I are planning to start a family of our own.” The Artist says proudly, raising a glass of Champagne to toast his heartfelt announcement.
“Stop saying that, the kids may start believing you!” The Countess’ Daughter barks.
“Actually, a seventy year old woman, in India, just gave birth, following two years of IVF treatment, at a fertility clinic and I’m no where near seventy.” The Countess says as she clinks her champagne glass with Artist’s before taking a sip.
“Mom, you’re sixty-five.” The Daughter reminds her Mother.
“So?” The Countess replies.
“So stop telling the kids you guys are going to have a baby, I don’t want them believing that.”
After a short, awkward pause in the dinner conversation, where everyone looks at the Artist with contempt, he breaks the silence by looking at the Countess’ Daughter and says, “You ought to explain Transgender to your daughter, she asked me if men can get pregnant.”
“I don’t want you talking to my children about Transgenders, those freaks are disgusting.”
“Disgusting? That’s funny coming from you.” The Artist responds to irate Daughter of Countess.
“That’s it. We’re out of here. Come on kids, let’s go. I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what you see in this monster. He’s rude, disgusting, vulgar and offensive.” The Daughter says as she rises from the table in a fit of rage.
“Look in the mirror, the same words can be used to describe you and your life.” The Artist responds.
“How dare you say that to my daughter?” The Countess shouts. “That’s it! We’re done! We’re over! You’re out of here! I want you out of my house before the end of the month!”
“Wait!” The Artist says, standing up. “Before you go, let’s all toast to our sixth year anniversary. Happy anniversary, Babe.” The Artist says turning to the Countess. “It’s been real.” The Artist says, as he raises his glass to an exasperated room full of houseguests, clamoring to exit, before he takes a swig of champagne and gets hit in the testicles by the Grandson, forcing him to spit out champagne all over the Countess and her Daughter.
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Scene 55
Baker Act
Artist knocks on third door of fourplex. Old man stinking of alcohol through pores and breath opens door to hand artist check.
“Thank you.” The Artist says before noticing the date on check. “Wait a minute, this check is for next month, I need this month’s rent.”
“I thought I paid this month already.”
“No and you were late on last months rent, so you have to add the late fee.” The Artist says taking a step back to avoid the repulsive smell emanating from the lanky senior citizen.
“I paid last month.” The drunkard says before breaking into a coughing fit that projects spittle onto the Artists suit and tie.
“Yes but you were late.” The Artist says while wiping spit off his tie with handkerchief from his pocket.
“I’m not late. I’m paying you a month in advance you greedy bastard!” The old man shouts in a drunken rage that cause him to stumble back into his apartment.
“This check is dated a month in advance. I can’t cash this.”
“That’s not my problem.” The old man says before passing out on his couch, snoring and dribbling out of the side of his wide open mouth.
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Scene 56
Passion Muse
As Daughter drives off with kids and Internet Lover, peeling out of the driveway, the Countess returns and yells at the Artist, “How dare you embarrass me in front of my family.”
“Me? I’m the embarrassing one? That’s rich.” The Artist laughs.
“Yes, you. My daughter says she never wants to see you again and will not let me see my Grandchildren until you are out of my life, so you’ve got to go. Now!” The Countess screams hysterically.
“Are you serious? The pedophile lover finds me offensive?” The Artist says while dodging a plastic cup full of water hurled at him by the furious Countess as she hollers, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
The Countess curls fingers into fists and pounds Artist in chest with both clenched hands pushing him backwards. The Artist grabs her arm instinctively to stop his descent and tears her shirt as they both fall to the floor, dangerously close to sharp edge of living room furniture. He holds the Countess in a tight embrace as she struggles to break free from his stronghold. She crumbles into tears and curses him as he attempts to contain her anger within his hug.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry. It’s okay. We’ll get through this, I promise.” The Artist says before kissing the Countess on her forehead as she sobs uncontrollably in his arms.
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Scene 57
Crackhead Jesus Is Coming
Artist drives up to beachfront property, steps out of his Lexus convertible, makes his way to front door and rings bell.
“Thank God you are here!” Says behemoth woman who opens door with curlers in her hair. “My husband got high on crack, went to work, got on his desk and told everyone at his office that he is the New Messiah and they are all his disciples.”
“What?” The Artist asks in disbelief.
“My husband thinks he’s Jesus fucking Christ!”
“You’re kidding?”
“I wish! The stupid motherfucker got fired today! He spent all our money on drugs and gambling, so now we can’t pay the rent.” The jumbo sized wife sobs as her husband approaches from behind in a white robe and sandals saying, “Welcome my Son.”, to the startled Artist.
***************************************************************************************
Scene 58
Evolution Of Man & Woman
Artist in bed with Countess leans over to kiss her goodnight but she recoils and turns away from him.
“How long are you going to keep ignoring me? It’s been three weeks since your daughter ruined our anniversary.” The Artist asks and receives a silent response from the Countess. “I didn’t think you could hold a grudge for that long.”
The Artist shuts off light. A loud fart breaks the silence. The Countess turns on light leaps out of bed and storms out of the room.
“I guess a blow job is out of the question.” The Artist says as she exits.
“Jesus don’t pay rent.” Crackheadjesus says to the Artist, while lounging in Speedo, on a float, shaped like a slice of pepperoni pizza, in pool.
“Listen Mister, unless I get footage of you walking across this pool, Bank of America isn’t going to believe I’m renting to the New Messiah.” The Artist says.
“Fuck Bank Of America! Those crooks fleeced everyone with the bailout!”
“That may be so but I still need to collect your rent.”
“I told you, Jesus don’t pay rent!”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense. If you don’t pay rent, I’ll have to hire an attorney to evict you.”
“Bankers and lawyers all have a special place in hell and so will you if you don’t stop fucking with me.” Crackheadjesus said to the Artist while making the sign of the cross with his middle finger as the Artist walks past his gigantic sobbing wife saying, “Your husband needs an intervention.”, before walking out the door.
“Good morning, My Love.” The Artist says sincerely to grumpy, disheveled, Countess as she makes her way into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee in the morning.
“My daughter and I voted you off the board of directors. You are no longer part of our company.”
“You can’t do that.”
“We just did.”
“I never got notice, besides you and your daughter voted me off on what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you’re an asshole.”
“That may be so, but I remind you, this asshole, made us all a lot of money; a third of which I’m entitled to, as one third owner of the company.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Well, good luck lying to the IRS. I’m sure they’ll be just as curious as I am to know what happened to my money if you two decide to steal and hide it.”
***************************************************************************************
Scene 61
The Backpacker
Artist plays chess with white haired Doctor in penthouse apartment overlooking Ocean.
“Doc, I’ve got this tenant who thinks he’s Jesus Christ and won’t pay rent; got any suggestions?”
“Do what I did when I had an obnoxious, deadbeat, crackhead tenant.” The auspicious looking spinal surgeon says to Artist while moving his Knight to put Artist’s Queen in check on the marble chess board. “After performing complex spine surgery, I washed up and left the hospital wearing a clean pair of surgical gloves.”
The Doctor tells Artist story in flashback as Artist plots his next moves on chessboard.
No one notices Doctor as he walks to his Cadillac in the Emergency room parking lot and opens car door in fresh surgical gloves. “I own a couple of low income tenement buildings in Baltimore, Pennsylvania and New Jersey.” The Doctor says in voiceover as he drives through Baltimore to a run down building in ghetto. “When my tenants get out of line, I kill them.”
Doctor parks car in dark alley next to filthy dumpster and exits vehicle as rats scurry away under his feet. He calmly walks through back entrance into dimly lit hallway that leads to stairwell consumed with graffiti under flickering lights. His expensive shoes crush German roaches as he climbs up seven flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. He exits enclosed stairwell and makes his way to apartment 702 where he knocks on the door with authority.
Seconds pass before the Doctor sees an eyeball staring back at him through peephole and he hears multiple locks being undone before door opens to reveal a lanky drug addict who says, “Listen, I’m sorry about the rent.”
Doctor grabs crackhead by the throat and lifts him off the ground, walking him straight back towards open window at the other end of filthy apartment saying, “I’m sure you are.”, before pushing his tenant, with feet and arms flailing, out the window to his death. The Doctor looks out window to see his victim impaled on fire hydrant and smiles before calmly walking out of the apartment, locking the door behind him and making his way past elevator to stairwell, where he walks downstairs to his car and drives away as if nothing happened.
“You’re kidding me, Doc.” The Artist says while moving his pawn to protect his Queen from the Doctor. “You’re suggesting I murder Crackheadjesus?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, I’m merely answering your question before putting you in checkmate.” The Doctor says as he moves his Bishop between the Artists’s King and Queen on the chessboard.
“I want you out of here, now!” The Countess shouts at Artist, as he follows her fluidly through house, with cellphone camera, video recording her every move and words.
“Where’d you get those bruises?” The Artist asks Countess, from behind the camera, while filming black and blue areas all over her body, as she puts clothes away in closet.
“I got them at an amusement park.”
“Oh really, when did you go the amusement park? I don’t remember being at an amusement park.”
“It was the beach.”
“Really? So how did you get that bruise?”
“Get out of my face.”
“But, how did you get that bruise? Did I give you that bruise?”
“I have pictures of the bruises you’ve given me and they were much worse than that.”
“So then who gave you this bruise right here?” The Artist asks, as Countess walks away from him, into living room area, as he follows her with camera recording.
“I was playing with the kids at the beach.”
“Which kids? The kids that are incestuous? The ones that have parents that actually lie and have us, on our anniversary, take care of her children, so that she can have sex, with a stranger?”
“I forbid you to film me.” The Countess shouts over the Artist as their words collide in an escalating argument that moves through the house with the artist saying, “ A stranger that your daughter brings into our house; a stranger that she met three months prior.”
“I want you out of my home!”
“Endangering the life of her children, by bringing a stranger into the house, so she can have sex.”
“This is my house.” The Countess shouts looking into the camera saying, “This man is not welcome in my home and I will call the police to have him evicted.”
“I have to witness incest and assault.”
“You didn’t see incest!”
“Making me have to see child pornography.”
“You didn’t see assault!”
“Because the kids Baby Daddy and Baby Mama are irresponsible.”
“You didn’t see anything of the such. You’re the person that was saying the words boobies and penis!”
“I had to see a young girl naked, which offended me.”
“Excuse me, you never saw a young girl naked!”
“Yeah, because the incestuous son of a pedophile, in front of the Countess, who did say nothing and actually turned the blame on the poor young girl, who ended up having to show her naked body to a stranger and now, your Daughter puts that same endangered young girl, in the hands of a stranger and you, as her Mother, condone it.”
“You are insane! You need to leave my home!” The Countess says as she slams the Officer door behind her and locks the Artist out, leaving him filming a closed door, saying, “And this is now on the record.”
Artist sheds his clothes and turns into bed alone before shutting off light to sleep at Midnight. He sees a bright light flashing into his bedroom and hears rustling outside his window. Frightened, Artist crawls out of bed, onto floor, while grabbing his cellphone off nightstand and heads into bathroom avoiding the bright spotlight. He dials 911. The moment Operator answers, two men burst through bathroom door with bright lights and guns pointed at him as he sits on the toilet shaking with fear.
“911, is this an emergency?”
“Two men are in my house pointing guns at me!”
“Police! Put your hands up!” Blinded by the light, Artist can only hear shouts in the surrounding darkness.
“They are police, Sir. We got a report of burglars in your neighborhood.”
“How did they get into my house without a warrant?” The Artist asks squinting at light beams.
“Your wife gave us the house keys and said there was a burglar in the house.” Voice behind light says.
“I’m not married.”
“I’m going to let you go now, Police will take care of things.” 911 Operator says.
“Can I videotape them?”
“They have body cameras on, Sir. Just do what they tell you and everything will be alright.” 911 Operator says before hanging up.
“Do you have I.D., Sir?” One of the police officers says from behind the light.
“Not on me.” The Artist replies. “I’m sitting on the shitter. Please don’t shoot.”
“Turn on the light, so we can shut our Mags off.”
The Artist flicks bathroom light switch on, revealing two armed cops, with guns aimed at his chest, standing inches away from his naked, shaking body.
“Do you live here?” Cop #1 says as both men shut off their lights and lower their weapons.
“Yes. My wallet is on the night stand. I’ll show you my drivers license.”
Police back away and allow naked Artist to get identification out of his wallet.
“Your wife thought there was a burglar in the house. She seemed pretty frightened.”
“She’s been swatting me and cop shopping because I notified Child Protective Services of possible child abuse with her grandchildren. This is the second time in less than a week that I’ve almost gotten shot by police in my own home.”
“We’re sorry, Sir. We’ll go talk to her.”
“That’s it? Can I file a complaint about her making false police reports? Isn’t it a misdemeanor or felony?”
“We’ll talk to her, Sir. If she genuinely thought there was a burglar inside, we can’t do anything.”
“Here’s your license. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Goodnight.” Cop #2 says before exiting home with Cop #1.
Inside Courtroom Artist sits beside his short, stumpy, Lawyer, as Judge looks down on him.
“Your Honor, my client is looking to evict this man and seeks financial retribution for damages done by tenant to his rental property.”
“Let me ask you something.” The Judge says to Artist’s Lawyer. “How many properties does your client own?”
“Twelve, your Honor.”
“And he can’t find it in his heart to house this man until he gets the help he needs to move on?”
“Your Honor, with all due respect, my client is running a business, not a charity.”
“That may be so but do to the extenuating circumstances, I’m going to allow for the tenant to reside in the property for ninety days and award your client $3,000 in damages for what you were able to prove as negligence on the tenants part. That’s my judgement. Get a copy of the ruling from the clerk on your way out of the courtroom.” The Judge said before striking gavel on desk as Crackheadjesus and his wife grinned from ear to ear at Artist.
“You’ll never see a penny of it.” Crackheadjesus says to Artist as they cross paths on way out of courtroom. “ And if you think your house is fucked now, wait till you see it in ninety days.”
Artist watches news investigation of people shot and killed by police before shutting off television and going to bed, alone in his house. He is noticeably shellshocked. As Artist, naked, twists and turns restlessly in bed, he notices through window, a car parked at the end of street, with it’s engine running and lights off. He crawls out of bed and puts robe on to investigate when suddenly bright lights fill his bedroom and he drops to the ground in terror as loud knocking fills the night time silence.
“Police! Open the door!” Artist sees cops and dogs surrounding his house in shadows. He walks to front door and looks through peep hole where he sees police in military gear standing outside his door.
“What do you want? I talked to the cops already.”
“You were arrested for battery the other day, we’re here to serve you.”
“No I wasn’t. You’ve got the wrong guy, I wasn’t arrested for anything the other day.”
“You don’t have a job. You are unemployed.”
“That’s not true. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Open the door, Sir. You’re just making it more difficult on yourself.” Artist notices the police officer taking a defensive stance behind the closed door.
“I’m calling 911. Please don’t shoot me. I’m not armed and you don’t have a warrant, so I’m not letting you in.” The Artist shouts while backing away from door and dialing 911.
“911, is this an emergency?”
“I’m being swatted. I’m being harassed by police because I reported my girlfriends Daughter to CPS.”
“They’re just there to serve you with papers, Sir.”
“For what? I haven’t done anything.”
“You have an injunction, Sir.”
“What’s that?”
“They’ll explain it to you, Sir, just open the door.”
“No. I’m not opening the door. Those guys are intimidating and accusing me of having been arrested for battery, which obviously I didn’t since, I’m not in jail.”
“I’m on the phone with the officers on the scene, they will leave, if you promise to drop by the station tomorrow morning, to sign the injunction.”
“I’ll do that but the only thing I’m guilty of is doing the right thing. Since when did see something say something become a crime?”
“They’re leaving, Sir. Make sure you drop by the station tomorrow morning, please.”
Artist watches from window as Swat team leaves with bomb sniffing dogs in tow.
“I paid you to evict Crackheadjesus and now I have to house this guy for ninety days while he trashes my place!”
“Eviction is not as easy as you think. There’s squatters rights.”
“What about my rights.”
“Rule of Law and justice are two different things, neither of which is always fair.”
“But you make money regardless.”
“It’s called law practice. Clients pay us to practice law.”
“If a plumber, electrician or hairdresser don’t do their job right, they don’t get paid but if a lawyer fucks up…”
“We get paid. That’s how it is. Speaking of which, heres your bill. We take cash or credit card.” The Lawyer finishes Artist sentence while handing him invoice with a big grin and gold rings on his fingers.
Artist in underwear talks on phone with Sister, recounting his nightmare experience, when doorbell rings as sun comes up. Artist answers door to find two elderly, non-threatening, police officers standing outside holding papers.
“Are you, the Artist?” Elderly Cop #1 asks Artist who has his Sister on phone as aural witness.
“Yes.”
“Sign this please.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an injunction. You have five minutes to vacate the premises.”
“What?”
“It’s a temporary injunction for protection against domestic violence. You’ll have your day in court in a month. Until then, you are not allowed within 500 feet of this property or your wife.”
“I’m not married.”
“You have five minutes to grab whatever you can. We’ll be right here waiting for you to leave. If you don’t leave, we will arrest you.”
The Artist hangs up with his sister and commences a high speed race through the house gathering whatever he can in five minutes and loading it all into the car before driving away under the watchful eye of authority.
Countess lies in bed with Artist, listening to his story while snuggled into his bare chest.
“I can’t believe the Judge let Crackheadjesus stay in your house for ninety days.”
“The worst part is, Hurricane Wilma left me homeless and destroyed my rental business. Of the twelve properties I owned, the only one that was unscathed was the one Crackheadjesus lived in and he destroyed that property when he left.”
“Were you able to collect for damages?”
“No. The Court said they could not enforce the ruling, because they were not a collection agency and lawyers just wanted more money to collect on something that would leave me in the red, even if I won, so I just cut my losses and got out of the rental business.”
“And you became an artist.”
“Never been happier.”
“Kiss me.” Countess says as she pulls the Artist’s head to meet her lips in a warm embrace.
“I’m fucking homeless! Again!” The Artist says to his friend as he sits at a rest stop talking on his cell phone. “And she emptied out our business and personal bank accounts, so I’m fucking broke too!”
“That’s fucked up. Do you have enough money to make it to my house?”
“Barely.”
“You can crash on my couch, for a few days, if you want but I can only let you stay for a week because I have family coming over and well, you know, your situation is kind of a bummer and they’ll be on vacation.”
“I get it, Man. Thanks for the offer. I’ll take you up on it until I figure out what to do. I’m still in shock over the whole thing.”
Artist starts engine and drives onto highway towards friends house.
Artist and Countess sip fruit cocktails on beach in front their Mansion.
“I think we should start a family.” The Countess says to Artist.
“Didn’t you go through menopause?” Artist asks taken aback by the prospect.
“I can get IVF treatment.”
“Designer babies. I don’t feel much like jerking off into a cup.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh, yeah, what are we going to tell our children, that they’re father beat his meat to an all girl lesbian orgy video with tribbing, strap-ons and double dongs, so they could be born in a petri dish?”
“You’re so disgusting.”
“If you think that’s disgusting, how are we going to make a baby? Are you going to fuck me proper or do you want me to jerk off to Disney videos at the sperm bank, so, in your mind, you don’t think I’m a pervert?”
Artist sitting on friends couch surrounded by papers making phone calls.
“Hey Bud, I need a favor.”
“I know. She contacted me.”
“So you know my situation.”
“I know you are a dick for hitting her and killing her dogs.”
“I didn’t kill her dogs or hit her.”
“Well, that’s what she’s been telling everyone. Your name is mud.”
“You know I’m not the monster she describes.”
“I don’t know, Man. She sounded pretty convincing. I can’t let you stay at my house. I don’t want to get involved, Sorry.”
Artist hears phone line go silent when friend hangs up on him as his Buddy enters room asking, “Have you found another place to stay yet?”
“No, Man. She’s been calling everyone and telling them shit about me. No one wants to get near me, they think I’m a dog killer, wife beater and child molester. That’s what I get for doing the right thing. No wonder no one wants to get involved.”
“See something say something get fucked. That’s why I mind my own business.” Artist’s Buddy says while taking a toke from joint and passing it to downtrodden Artist. “Here, this will calm you down.”
“Thanks, Man.”
“No worries.” Buddy pauses to take hit from joint passed back to him from Artist. “I hate to be a dick but you got to get out of here tomorrow. My family doesn’t take kindly to dog killers and child molesters.”
“Congratulations! Our hard work paid off. We’re set to make well over seven figures this year in profit.”
“That’s great. We should celebrate by taking off for the weekend. Maybe get a hotel somewhere nice, since tomorrow is our six year anniversary.”
“Oh, about that, my daughter and her new boyfriend are running a 5k for charity tomorrow and she asked if we could watch her kids this weekend.”
“Does she know it’s our anniversary?”
“Yes, but, I told her we would. You know how much I love those kids.”
“If that’s what you want. If it makes you happy.”
“It does.”
“If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy, so I guess we’re babysitting your grandkids for our anniversary.” The Artist says, as Countess rises from table to kiss him on lips, saying, “Thank you Baby. I love you so much. You’re the best.”
Artist reads Injunction with Friend as both smoke bong.
“I can’t believe she told police I am a terrorist with bombs and a cache of assault rifles. No wonder they showed up with swat teams and bomb sniffing dogs.”
“What a cunt!” Friend says exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The Bitch tried getting you killed by police, that’s called swatting.”
“I know, the police said she was cop shopping too, trying to find officers that were sympathetic to her cause.”
“That’s bullshit, Man, cops always take the woman’s side.”
“Thanks for letting me stay here, Man, everyone thinks I’m a prick because of her.”
“I know you are a prick but you are my prick and I’m not going to let you crumble because of some dumb bitches lies.”
“Man, I need to get an attorney but she cleared out my bank account and left me penniless.”
“Listen dude, you can crash on my couch as long as you like but I ain’t lending you any money. I’m not a bank.”
“You’ve got three weeks to raise the money to save your good name and reputation, so if I were you, I’d be selling my ass on the street if I had to.”
Artist enters Courtroom with attorney and sees Countess sitting beside Domestic Abuse Counselor in packed Court as female Judge enters room, Bailiff says, “All rise, the Honorable Judge Lynn Topper presiding.”
“You may be seated.” The Judge addresses the packed courtroom. “We are hear today to rule on Injunctions for protection against domestic abuse. These are summary proceedings. There is no opening statement, no closing statement, no character witnesses, no long stories and background information about personality disorders or all of the circumstances surrounding the situation. I want facts. Cut to the chase. I won’t stand for any long stories about the history of your relationship, work history, residence history or contribution to the relationship because it’s not relevant. I’m here to determine one thing and one thing only, is the petitioner a victim of an act of violence or is the petitioner in imminent danger of becoming a victim of an act of domestic violence under section 741.30 of Florida statutes. The burden of proof is on the Petitioner to speak specifically about the act of violence perpetrated against the Petitioner and I’m not talking about yelling, cursing, threats or intimidation. I want dates, time and location of specific acts that caused the Petitioner to become a victim. Nothing else matters in my Court. Now, if I do find the Petitioner to be a victim of domestic abuse, I am authorized to sentence the Respondent to up to, but no more than, five and a half months in jail. With that in mind, let’s proceed. Bailiff, what’s the first case on the docket?”
Doctor plays chess with artist in Penthouse overlooking Ocean.
“Remember this, my friend.” Doctor says to Artist as he puts Artist’s King in check with pawn. “You can always count on cops being overworked, underpaid and lazy and lawyers being greedy. That’s why you can always get away with murder.” Doctor winks at Artist before adding, “That is of course, if you are smart, like me.”
In packed Courtroom, Judge addresses female Petitioner, with lawyer, in front of Respondent, without lawyer, defending himself pro se.
“You testified under oath that you witnessed the Respondent beating your son with his fists, did you not?”
“Yes, your Honor, I did.”
“Then why in the police report, taken minutes after police arrested your domestic partner, did your son write, and I quote, ‘I thought he would hit me but he didn’t.’ , end quote?”
“I don’t know, your Honor.”
“Oh, I think I know. If your son had been struck by the Respondent, as you claim, he would have remembered it moments after it happened and included it in the police report. There is a big difference between thinking you are going to get hit and actually getting hit. I’ll tell you what I think. I think the Respondent , as he stated under oath, told you he wanted you and your kids out of his home months ago. I think you tried buying yourself some time by filing this injunction and putting this man in jail without just cause. Your lies have put this man through hell. Therefore, I am denying your request for permanent injunction and dismissing this case for providing insufficient evidence under Florida Law sections 741.30. Who’s next Bailiff?”
“Your Honor, Case number 2016DR002970DRAXES, The Countess versus The Artist.”
Artist sits with Crackheadjesus as he floats in pool on inflatable Pizza in Speedos.
“You will be challenged by the Justice System and you will learn that it is broken. No justice no peace. In your life, if you want peace, you must learn to navigate the litigation vortex, before it swallows you whole and ruins your existence. Remember, Motherfucker, the truth will set you free.”
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