Entry VII--Hash Wednesday (Part 2)

(For the first part of Entry VII, and the previous 6 entries, scroll below and click on past archives)

At the very least, making associations, connections, in my mind, that I normally wouldn't.

Focusing on details of...anything.

Each one of them, fascinating to no end.

THC slowing down time. No, my perception of it, which is more accurate, since time is an artificial construct anyway.

Accounting for, taking notice of...everything. Like each individual ash burned from the hashball, fallen on the table where they lay inside the goblet.

With the expanse of my mind, it's suddenly quite clear to me today is Ash Wednesday. Makes sense, considering the bar I got tossed out of was celebrating Fat Tuesday.

Glance at the goblet and correct myself:

It's Hash Wednesday.

Lift up the goblet, dip two fingers in the fallen ashes and mark on my forehead one vertical line intersected by one horizontal line, lower than usual.

An upside down crucifix of soot.

Gotta see what it looks like, and notice the difference as I walk to the bathroom--the stagger is gone.

Flip on the light and look in the mirror, quickly laughing at my hash ashen blasphemy, ignoring the bloodshot eyes and slightly dialated pupils.

Could easily get lost staring back at my mirror image (or is he staring at me?), like it's "another me" in a parallel universe. He's separate from me in that while I can see his face and look into his eyes, he can never see those eyes in the mirror. Only my eyes.

Man, what the fuck am I talking about? Must be good 'n baked.

Something about parallel universes. It's my nature to be skeptical about such things, but they could theoretically exist, according to string theory.

Now that's easily the most lucid I've sounded tonight. Amazing how the dope dispels of the drunk.

For some reason, Ms. Cabal pops into my mind. Another sign that I'm sober...or at least, no longer sloshed--hadn't thought about her for hours.

For some reason, I'm associating the possibility of a parallel universe with Ms. Cabal.

Also, feel my dick getting hard at the thought of her.

Choose to ignore the stiffness below, for this is a time for higher thinking.

Literally and figuratively as the case may be.

Uh...what was I just thinking about?

It was something pretty heavy, too.

Damn. That's one of the disadvatages of higher thinking--short term memory tends to suffer.

Fuck it. If it's that important, it'll resurface in my hippocampus eventually.

Return to the table to find there's still a sizable portion of the hash left.

Where the fuck are those matches.

So stoned, can't even remember where I put them.

Of course, I wouldn't need to remember if I'd just look down. They're right on the table, where I left them after I lit the last hit.

Crouch down again so my mouth is at table level. Strike the match, not worrying if it will burn me and light the slightly deminished hashball for the third time.

Cap it for the third time with the goblet and am enthralled by the aesthetic quality of the smoke itself, the way it curls and creates limitless form, a living entity onto itself.

As I effortlessly lift the goblet to release the smoke for the third time, this time there's no frantic inhalation--I'm stoned enough, any further buzz is gravy.

Instead, just let the smoke drift up into my nose my open mouth, which I accept warmly, like the kiss from a beautiful girl.

Some of the smoke rises, getting into my eyes.

And I blink...

Eyes open and I see the overturned goblet with double vision; there's two of 'em, and each takes on a different shape.

To my left eye, the goblet transforms into the sleek metallic dome of the furturistic culture from my vision...

To my right eye, it transforms into the archaic, ornate dome of the church, St. Whatever...

Weirder still, see myself inside both domes.

See myself bowing on my knees.

Both versions throw me off; why am I bowing in the future dome? In that previous vision of it, on the movie set, I was one of the creative inhabitants of the place.

And why am I bowing in a church? That's the last thing on earth I'd do.

Also see I'm not alone.

In the future, I bow before a woman clad in black leather. Must be my impression of what Ms. Cabal would look like is she were a Dominatrix. (Were?)

In the church, I bow before...Rev. Theodore Pleasant.

With each passing moment, I move closer to each of the simultaneous visions, running before my eyes like two separate movies being projected on the same wall, like a camera tracking toward its subject.

With each passing moment, I pick up more and more disgusting detail

In the future dome, my nose is but a nanometer from the tip of Ms. Cabal's stilleto heels, who stands on a stage platform, to further elevate herself from me.

Below me are the blindingly white blank pages of a book opened up and a fountain pen.

"It is time to put pen to paper, Darwin." she commands, the underlying threat should I disobey apparent in her tone.

She also offers nonverbal intimidation, lowering her arm just enough so her stiff riding crop enters my field of vision, reminding me a strike across the face could take place at any moment.

"Yes, Ms. Cabal," I respond in between hard swallows.

In the church dome, my nose is but a nanometer from the tip of the blood stained feet of someone's lord and savior, jesus h. christ himself.

It's that life-sized crucifix from the wall, brought down to be propped up next to Pleasant so I can kneel before it.

Tempt fate by craning my neck ever so slightly upward and glimpse the forlorn look of defeat hanging on christ's mug.

He's kinda got that feeling that it's time to die. But then, christ's been down that road before.

The prince's crown o' thorns cylindrically pierce christ's head, and this blood is real, trickling everywhere; some of it gets on the cross, some of it gets on christ's tattered robes and some of it gets on christ's leg, mixing in with the blood of the stab and whip wounds christ had endured on the way to his date with destiny.

Some of it gets on me.

Think I'm going to be sick.

Out of the corner of my eye, catch sight of another riding crop in the hands of Pleasant, this one appears even harsher than Ms. Cabal's--if that's possible.

Almost forgot he was here, being so preoccupied with his messiah as I was.

Apparently, Pleasant doesn't care much for the way I raise my head:

"Bow before Christ Jesus, Grimm," he admonishes. "Beg his fo'giveness before you are separated for eternity from your one and only true savior, for otherwise it is providence that you will perish eternally in the Lake of Fire."

How can I beg...anything? I don't believe...

Memories I don't want flash in my mind, back to the time I was a kid--and I truly did believe.

I rationalize that since there was a time when I did believe, I see no reason why I can't fake it--you know, pretend to believe and accept Pleasant's fantasy.

Better than getting hit.

Meanwhile, back in the future dome below Ms. Cabal, am racking my brain, desperately trying to come up with something--anything--to fill up the endless empty pages of the book.

But it's hard concentrating with the perpetual stream of blinding light bouncing off the page.

And Ms. Cabal won't let me raise my head nor close my eyes; have to keep my head lowered and stare down until I do something about it.

Only one way to blot out the blankness--write. Must fill up the pages with words of ink that will dispel the high beams that render me virtually sightless.

I don't know what to write about, but yet, I do.

christianity.

Critique christianity.

That's what Ms. Cabal wants, that's what I'm best at. That's why I'm here, bowing before her, to execute the death sentence of christianity. (However contradictory that statment may be).

But under such duress, the only fucking thing popping into my head is...Ash Wednesday.

Not even sure that's a subject I'd care to explore it a book--never have tackled it previously in any of my writings, but it'll do for now, under such pressure as I am.

Have to get at the root of what those ashes mean.

And as I write, find that I don't have to physically pick up the pen, but am able to "write" with my mind. I just think of the words and the pen is guided by an invisible hand and...fills the pages.

Crystal clear I hear the music and lyrics from xmas eve up on Snob Hill, with the voice that sounds remarkably like Ms. Cabal's:

The struggle eternal, waged through the ages

Will finally be won, when you fill the pages

And the formerly blank pages of the book I kneel before fill with my writing:

The ashes associated with ash wednesday serve an obvious symbolic purpose, and while the ritual is specifically catholick, that purpose underscores the hatred of life underpinning all of christianity (an by extension, all global religions).

The ashes actually have a dualistic symbolism. The obvious one is death, as in "ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The ashes also symbolize repenting for sins; a holy man spreads them on one's forehead to signify that person is "dirty" with sin, thus donning the ashes demonstrates repentence for sins.

Let's not kid ourselves. This is portraying one's self as human detritus. Humility may be endless, but it doesn't need any pushing along.

Hey, I'm on a bit of a roll here, the writing is coming quicker to me than I woulda thought. But don't want to stop and admire the work while it's still getting done, so the writing continues.

The very notion of repenting for baseless sins to a mythical god should turn the average stomach, but the average stomach digests it all quite easily.

The average christian doesn't seem to be bothered in the slightest that this allegedly omniscient and omnipotent deity (god/jesus) would ever stoop so low as to judge his highly flawed mortal creations as being "sinful."

If the christians are right, and that is their god, then I want no part of the petty sonofabitch.

You'd sooner get me to accept that a gray whale would judge a colony of barnacles clinging almost invisibly to its enormous mass.

Or that a Supreme Court justice would judge a mosquito landing on her arm to feed.

What, were we given freewill the the caveat that all of life is a game, a test, to see if each one of us passes or fails based on the number and/or the severity of the sins we commit.

Sins, like every other element of a given religion, are a man-made measure of control.

So the man-made sins are imposed by the man-made central church and holy book of a given religion, not by some heavenly father, therefore repenting for sins makes no sense.

But don't make the mistake thinking it's just a benign waste of time. Repenting for sins can stunt psychological growth, in the sense that a person, after having ashes rubbed on his/her forehead, can throw their hands up in the air and say, "Hey, I'm a repenting sinner" relinquishing a certain amount of personal responsibility in the process, instead of dealing with a potentially serious issue that the 'sin' in question may be related to.

Smacking soot on the forehead also emphasizes the christian death trip; that true happiness can only be attained in the afterlife. Thus death becomes the focus of one's faith, and by extension, of one's life.

This is why christianity's primary symbol, the crucifix, features a dying christ. christ portrayed as a noble, happy deity, like a Greek or Roman deity might be, would represent life, the joy of existence.

Life doesn't work for christianity.

While ashes pale in comparison to the imagery of the crucifix, they remain a powerful symbol.

Conversely, marking a person as a "sinner" with ashes also represents the hatred of life in the sense of casting moral judgment on those things tha make life worth living; sex and freethinking being two prime examples.

In this way, the ashes embody christianity's one-two punch of sin-death. You're a miserable shameful sinner if you try to seek pleasure or independence in life, but your reward for all your chastity and conformity doesn't come till you're dead.

Your whole life, at the end of it all, is nothing more than a clump of ashes, to be spread on another forehead. Only the spirit, and the afterlife awaiting it, matter.



Struggle to get the words out:

"Our Father, who...art in Heaven, hallowed...be Thy name."

Back in front of Pleasant again and writing radical anti-christian rhetoric is the furtherst thing from my mind.

Instead, am reciting the Lord's Prayer. Like I mean it.

Out of my peripheral vision, which is quite good, can stretch my eyes enough to see some of the presumably hundreds of cleancut earnest churchgoers filed into the pews behind me, facing Pleasant.

Even though I can't see very far behind me, I just know that it's a packed house, I can tell, from the general crowd ambiance.

And then, Pleasant makes sure I really hear them.

The blows strikes me across the face so quickly, I don't realize I've been struck by Pleasant's riding crop until the pain shoots from the nerve endings in my face through my spinal cord before fully registers in my brain.

Feel the harsh sting on my left cheek and under my right eye the most.

While the congregation applauds its approval.

"There's more where that came from, Grimm," Pleasant whispers loud enough that only I can here,"if you do not keep your head down and your concentration up and finish that prayer."

And the corngregation claps its approval.

This must be the stuff of fantasy on my part, because this certainly isn't the Pleasant the world knows as the "gentle general."

Pain stings my face, but I don't dare unclasp my hands to rub it. Reason I got smacked in the first place was cause I stopped praying and drifted off in thought.

Opt to start over from the beginning, "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy name. Thy Kingdome come--"

Pleasant remains unsatisfied as he leans down to me and whispers once more, "Louder and clearer, Grimm. Because if you don't, so help me God..."

He let his voice trail off on purpose just then, to make the threat sound open-ended, and worse than the punishment probably would be.

But he also reminds me of the physical threat by flicking his wrist so the riding crop enters m field of vision, reminding me.

He's trying to intimidate me.

He's succeeding.

"Thy will be done--"


Meanwhile, back in still threatening but infinitely more benign Future Dome, I continue filling the pages without lifting a finger, surprising myself at my prodigious pace:

Being adorned in ashes also marks the beginning of lent, the season of self-denial and sacrifice, leading up to easter, which like virtually all of christianity, is derived from paganism.

Even I have to admit, the biblical basis for lent is one of the cooler new testicle stories. The one where christ goes into the desert and is tempted by the devil, but resists it by fasting. christ fasted for 40 days, so lent is the 40 days leading up to easter (again, easter's date is determined each year to fall on the first Sunday following the first full moon of Spring. If that ain't pagan, what is?)

Though there are health benefits and shamanic insights to be gleaned from fasting, christianity has perverted it to represent further hatred of the flesh.

Moving past the obvious good/evil dualism, one wonders why christ's resistance of the devil is so celebrated?

Who know, maybe lucifer had some pertinent advice for christ, who was much younger than satan.

Fact, lucifer was said to have once been god's favorite angel, before god had a son he could call his own. Maybe lucifer just wanted to tell jesus: "Hey buddy, don't make the same mistakes I did."

Course, if christ had accepted any of the devil's advocacy, he'd probably be on the outs with pop, regardless of the sagacity of such advice.

But it would've been interesting--to this author, at least--if christ had heard luc out. For lucifer/satan/the devil has always represented secret wisdom, from his first biblical appearance as the snake in the garden, tempting the first occupants with the fruit from the tree of knowledge, all the way to today's claims by the Crusaders that satan is behind paganism

Aye, does "lucifer not mean "bringer of light?"

Hmm, don't think I should ignore that paganism angle. Man, this hash mixed with the submission is truly inspirational:

When it comes to paganism, in symbolic terms, the Crusaders are right; the devil represents the truth that paganism is the source for the majority of biblical lore. But since the church has no use for people making those connections, they throw everyone off the trail by associating paganism with satanism.

Returning to the myth at hand, lent means a catholick renounces earthly pleasures like food and meat via fasthing to re-emphasize that the material world is fleeting and an eternity awaits the true believer beyond the grave (just as the ashes symbolize).

But if that's the case, that the material world is fleeting, then why should any of us deny material pleasure for the brief time that we're here?

Do fasting and sacrifice build character or do they lead to self loathing and complacency with one's lot in life?

Fasting is just like accepting ashes, repenting for one's sins. One has to genuinely believe that god is genuinely pleased by the action of giving up burgers on Fridays, otherwise it has no meaning for the faster.

Entry VII--Hash Wednesday

(For the first 6 entries to the online novel Darwin Blinks, please scroll down, and begin with Entry 1--The Good News which is in the May Archives. Read the entries in numerical order. )

My door swings open as I find myself in a familiar position--on my knees.

Seems to be a theme for the evening.

Wouldn't have even made it up here if the elevator hadn't been running. Old at that thing is, it's always a roll o' the dice.

Taking on two flights of stairs, plowed as I am, would have been difficult if not downright impossible.

Am really impressed I managed to fit the key in the damn lock, but in the midst of turning it, I fell down again.

Just too fucking dizzy to even attempt getting back on my feet. Lot easier to just pull out the key and crawl into my pad.

The depressive effects of the booze must be kicking in, 'cause I feel pretty disgusted with myself right about now.

Despite being so anesthetized, can't even bring myself to laugh about how low I've gotten--it's not funny any more.

After a ridiculously tremendous effort, close the door behind me and decide I don't want to be drunk any more.

But how to end it?

Can't just magically snap my fingers and become sober.

I sure as hell can't sleep it off. I may be barely coherent but am still aware enough to know lying in this state would have the bed spinning faster than the blades of an Apache chopper.

Wish there was a pill I could take...

And then, must be in one of the dry regions of my brain, I think I do have something that could help.

Only problem being, don't remember where the fuck I put it?

As hard as it is, gotta focus...and visualize.

Wrapped in tin foil, it is.

The kitchen? No, that's the obvious choice, but it's not in the fridge...

The shoebox!

In the closet, last time I look. It better fucking be there. I'm too fucked up to be looking for it.

But if I have to, I'll tear this fucking place apart to find it, if need be.

And if I'm remembering this correctly, it's up on a shelf somewhere. Meaning I'll have to get up.

Sucks.

Using the wall as a brace and motivated by a goal, I manage to stand upright.

Most impressive thing I've done in this apartment in a long time.

But what would impress me more would be to find that damn shoebox--or more to the point, what's inside it.

And it better be there, cause I have no fucking clue where else it could be.

Step into the closet, looking up at the shelf, that's where it should be.

Argh--why the fuck do I have so many book up there? It's not like I ever fucking read them.

Man, can I get a single sentence out tonight without dropping an F-bomb?

Probably not, tend to swear quite a bit when I'm this drunk, and I don't think I've ever been this...(go on, say it) fucking drunk.

Ah-ha...think I spot the object of my desire, so I get on tippy toes and stretch my arm forward to the back of the shelf, practically against the closet wall...

And can feel it with my hand, but being off-balance and of course, still quite drunk, I pull the shoebox forward too hard and fast and it sends a bundle of books cascading down upon me.

That really would have hurt if I wasn't half in the bag.

Brush off whatever pain was wrought by the falling novels because I just realize that the shoebox also went flying outta my fucking hand, dispersing the contents all over the floor.

Man, I am the definition of "sloppy drunk."

Oh well, at least I got an excuse to drop back down to my knees. Standing wasn't really working out for me--function a whole lot better on the floor.

Scour the carpet for my prize...

There it is! For once, something goes my way.

That little tin foil ball o'magic rolled conveniently into the light.

This should do the trick.

Not the foil, silly, what's inside...

A round gram of purified cannabis resin, bristling with psychoactive THC.

Blonde Lebanese hashish, to be precise.

Peel it open, and finally liberated from its cover of alloy, the inviting aroma wafts up into my receptive, intrigued nostrils.

Lick my lips involuntarily in response.

Haven't gotten stoned in ages, but I've had this clump of hash ever since that one guy--what was his name?--laid it on me a couple years back.

Seamus--that was it. Seamus Navarro. Half-Irish, half-Mexican as I recall. Seamus was this neo-hippie type I met on some movie set, during a vulnerable period in my life where I decided it was important I had a friend for a week.

Went with once to some jamband concert in Oakland, where there what is known as a "scene," typically found in the parking lot of the venue. There you will find various ne’er-do-wells either looking to have a good time or looking to sell you a good time.

Remember Seamus buying two clumps of hashish from a "wookie" (that's a hippie with dreadlocks and bad teeth), and he told me to hold one of them, which I promptly pocketed. We got stoned in the concert on the hash and some pot of his and I plum forgot about the has I was holding for him and either he forgot about it too or he just meant for me to have it all the time because he never asked about it.

Never even got a chance to return it to him because that was the last night we hung out, we never spoke again on the phone and we never worked on the same movie set ever again, or maybe he moved away, I really don't know.

Do know I've still got the little present he accidentally(?) bestowed on me that night two years past and it should do more for me now then he ever could have hoped to in friendship.

Haven't gotten stoned since that night two years ago, but tonight just seems right to break out the hash.

Hopefully it hasn't lost too much potency over time. Wonder what the shelf life of hash is?

Not that it should have to be too strong to get me high, non-smoker wuss that I am.

Hold the blonde ball of great promise in my unsteady palm, watching it roll back and forth, waiting for it to inspire me.

Then, it does.

Occurs to me I should smoke this in the appropriate manner worthy of hash--under glass.

(Look at me, conforming to tradition like any desperate christian).

And I know just the implement--that goblet I swiped from a medieval movie set last year. I was an extra for this low-budget straight to vid period piece shot at a local Reniassance faire. I was one of the background spectators and my goblet of (non-alcoholic) mead was just begging to be taken home as a souvenir.

Actually, fuck that it was a souvenir, I probably didn't have anything to drink out of back then. Not like I have a whole helluva lot of glasses now, but in those days I was probably cupping my hands under the sink to quench a thirst.

Carefully place the hash ball on the overturned lid of the shoebox, so I don't lose track of it again. Then, even more carefully, use the wall to brace myself up back on my feet again.

Could have crawled to the kitchen, but that really is so undignified.

Motivated by purpose and the promise that I'll soon shed this alcoholic skin that clings to me and weighs me down like a diseased shell, I make it to the cupboard without incident.

As if the thought of leaving this drunk behind is already sobering me up, altering my consciousness.

Make it to the cupboard wobble-free and locate the goblet behind the fallen, emptied vodka bottles in the cabinet. It's covered in dust and cobwebs, it's been that long since I've used it.

But nothing a little tapwater can't clean...

Envision in my mind how this will go down, and clear out a space on the table by sweeping off a pile of random papers and unopened mail onto the floor. Too drunk to be neat and concentrate on smoking this hash.

Ah, shit! To do this right, I need a paperclip, and I just knocked all the paperclips on the floor.

Using the table to brace myself, I manage to bend over without dropping to my knees (cause I'm not all that confident about making it back up this time) and snatch up one of 'clips.

Twist then straighten one end of it so that it points out and up, supported by the untwisted end of it, serving as a base.

With the meticulous precision of a brain surgeon, I gently place the hash ball on the straightened end of the paper clip.

Turn the goblet over and center it above the hash ball on the paper clip, just to see how it looks.

Not bad, but then it occurs to me what just might throw a monkey wrench in all my plans.

How do I light the damn thing?

No lighter...

Eye a candle on top of the fridge. Hmm...I could light the wick on the stove and then light the hash ball with the burning wick.

But that'll end up with wax dripping all over the hash.

Just when I'm resigned to going back outside to the all night store to buy a fucking lighter, I remember I took a book of matches from that bar I was at last week.

Don't ask me how I remembered that, maybe cause I was drunk at that time too. Something to do with being in a similiar (tilted) frame of mind, perhaps. It's like I couldn't have remembered that if I was sober.

Finally, something positive came out of being sauced.

Stumble back to the laundry pile (the corner of the room where I toss my dirty clothes, I don't have a hamper) and find the jeans I wore at the Poison Pearl bar last week.

Dig around the back pocket and there they are. Salvation.

Back to the table, my step steadying, I lift the goblet off of the hash and place it close by. Strike a match and put it to the hash.

But it isn't burning properly and what's worse--ouch!

Fucking burned my fucking finger. The accident, along with the return of my potty mouth means I might not be as sober as I'd like to think I am.

Just discovered another advantage to being so shit-faced--there's no lingering pain in the tips of my fingers because the alcohol has properly anesthisized me.

Strike another match, but in trying to be cautious to avoid another burning, I move too slow and the match goes out before I can light the hash.

Quell the frustration by looking on the bright side, still got eighteen matches left. (Of course, the bright side would never get very bright if it was relying on me to strike a match).

Seriously beginning to doubt if I will even get stoned tonight--or even if I want to.

No, I do, I'm sick of this false hope really depressive feeling engendered by excessive drinking.

Third time's the proverbial charm, as the match stays lit long enough to ignite the hash ball and my fingers remain uncharred.

Pull the match away, watching the blue and orange flame envelope the cylindrical of hash. Not sure how long I'm supposed to wait, but five seconds seems good enough.

Turn the goblet over once more, covering the burning hashball, immediately cutting off the oxygen and filling the chalice with promising smoke, even in the hollowed out stem and base.

It's at this point I realize I didn't place the hash on the clip close enough to the edge of the table, as that's the only proper way to be able to inhale properly.

Have to slide the goblet over to the edge nearest me, but in doing so, one side of the goblet knocks the paperclip over, knocking the hash off, but it's okay, since the flame was already extinguished. Long as it doesn't fall on the fucking floor.

Okay, goblet's at the edge. It's finally time to partake. Squat down, not unlike a baseball catcher, mouth parallel to the table's surface, in order to receive this bounty.

Move my lips to the table's edge...then slowly lift one side of the goblet up about an inch, releasing smoke out into the air...

Sucked up by my mouth and nostrils, the remaining fumes escape before I can place the goblet back flat on the table.

Doesn't matter, there's still plenty of the hash to burn.

Wasn't really sure how much to take in, having been so long since I smoked anything, so I held back and didn't inhale a lot.

Mmmm...even with my modest intake, the taste of the smoke travels from my tongue via nerve cells making sensory connections, then striking the limibic region of my brain.

Then I perceive the unique flavor of the smoke, evoking a distinct Arabic ambiance.

Can't hold the hit in any longer and it's expelled with a slight cough most unimpressive.

Don't feel any effect yet, nothing approaching a "high" All I sense is the sweet Persian aftertaste.
(Not that I really expected it to hit me this fast, inebriated as I am.)

Can't be half-ass about this, however. If I'm going to alter my state, I've got to increase the dosage.

Am suddenly reminded of that late night axiom of my college daze: "If one does not cough, one does not get off."

Ready myself by ambitiously taking three deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling deeeeeeply each time, prepping my lungs, opening them up.

Strike another match and re-ignite the hashball, count off two seconds this time, then cover it with the goblet, filling with smoke for the second time.

This time, I just inhale, not caring if it's more than I can handle. That's the attitude I've got to take.

And though it begins to hurt something awful and the tension of holding it my lungs can be felt in a tightening of my temples, I don't stop. It's not unlike when you're eating out a female and even though your tongue is aching and you can't breathe, you keep pushing yourself because you don't want to do anything to throw off the woman's concentration, so hey, she comes too.

With that mindset, I suck in all the smoke, letting none escape.

Only problem with this strategy is--it's just too much smoke for my rusty lungs to contain and it's only a couple of seconds until I'm hacking, gagging and wheezing something furious as a cloud of expelled smoke cloaks me.

Feels like I chucked up a hunk of my lung in the process.

Did this do the trick...?

My head is spinning, and it's not from the booze.

Spontaneously stand up from my crotching position, a completely involuntary action on my part.

That I soon regret, as I'm hit with a wicked headrush...

Falling into the nearest chair. Should really be thankful it was so damn close, I'd have fallen on my ass otherwise.

All cottonmouth and parched throat, I take a sip of stale water next to the chair on the floor, who knows how many days it's been there, but I'm in no condition to be walking to the sink for fresh aqua.

Cough and get off indeed.

But there is some positive fallout along with the headspins; my sense are sharpened and my brain is racing, leaving the careless booze buzz behind.

Almost feeling...dare I say it?

Creative...

Entry VI--Flat Tuesday

(For the first 5 entries to the novel "Darwin Blinks" scroll down)


Try as I might, can’t seem to dirty the screen. It remains blank, snowy white, still a “new document” with nary a word to be found.

Slept a good 12 hours after the call from Ms. Cabal, wanted to approach this day fully rested, and more importantly, completely sober. Ate a good lunch, and the sleep and food completely dissipated any trace remnants of the hangover.

So I really have no excuse for not being able to come up with anything.

And that’s really bad news.

Means I have nothing to write when it comes to critiquing christianity.

I mean, that must be it, right?

What else could it be?

Here am I, given the proverbial “opportunity of a lifetime” and I can’t come up with a single fucking idea to capitalize on that opportunity.

And I don’t even mean “capitalize” in the capitalistic sense, though I probably should, since rent’s been due for a good 10 days.

Hate falling too far behind ‘cause it just makes it that much harder to pay next month which always comes up too quick.

Look back at the blank screen and wonder if maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself, trying to come up with ideas.

Maybe I need to loosen myself up a tad….

Eyes drift from the screen to the fridge.

Got so fucking plastered the other night, don’t even remember what’s left in there.

Only one way to find out…

Started off with beer—albeit very good beer. India Pale Ale (IPA), bottled by a local brewery called Tremendous Tube, to be precise.

IPA’s are generally tasty and these suds are no exception; like nectar o’ the gods (er, the pagan ones).

Erase that last thought. Made a promise to myself that I wasn’t going to think about religion anymore.

My alleged battle with christianity is pointless. Can’t beat ‘em…

Join ‘em? Certainly not.

But not going to waste any more brain cells worrying about christians and their undue influence on the culture.

I don’t care what Ms. Cabal thinks, or what she wants.

(Man, I must be drunk to be thinking that way).

Besides, am not going to pick up on any pussy by sitting here and philosophizing.

Not that I honestly thought I had any chance in hell of picking up a broad here tonight—at least when I walked into the place. Couple of mixed drinks tends to boost the confidence

Gotta lot better way to waste my brain cells and I emphasize the point by downing the last of my second screwdriver since I arrived at this dive bar on Bush St. frequented by Snob Hill yuppies and downtown hipsters.

Only reason I came here is that it’s right up the street from my place and stumbling like I was, neither cared to nor was capable of making it to any other establishment.

Felt like being spontaneous, do something, go somewhere I never ventured previously—do the last thing I’d expect myself to do.

So I grabbed my last $20 and am planning to drink it tonight and am not going to worry about tomorrow.

I used to be more spontaneous like this, in my early 20’s, and those were the only times I ever picked up women for the proverbial, clichéd yet somehow satisfying one-night stands.

Maybe I was hoping to recapture some of the ol' magic by coming here tonight in this state of mind.

And despite the aforementioned formula for disaster, I don’t feel the least bit queasy; beer then liquor, liquor then beer, neither combo seems to matter to my alcohol-scarred gut.

But even those screwdrivers were merely prelude. See, the goal is total obliteration, and that can only be achieved via 151-proof rum, which will serve as proof of just how far I've gone down this booze soaked path.

It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even fear the hangover. Hell, I even welcome them. Either way, it’s an altered state of consciousness--that's the goal.

Order my first 151 and water and treat it as if I'm dipping my toes in chilly waters; even a very modest sip sends me reeling a bit; maybe I'm not ready for this strong a drink.

But fuck it, it's like anything else, stick it out and get used to it, eventually.

And the old adage rings true, a couple more drinks and I'm really too numb to care how much the room spins.

Or maybe it's that the bar was spinning clockwise and the 151 now has me spinning counter-clockwise, and somehow it all balances out.

Place is getting more and more crowded, which seems peculiar for a Tuesday night.

Then a candy-girl saunters by selling Mardi Gras beads and then it finally registers in my dampened noodle that it's Fat Tuesday, the last day of partying before the season of lent.

Ha. Normally, just the thought of lent would work me up into a lather about the upcoming easter season (or perhaps I'd lamely call it the leaster season) and all that it represents in terms of how irrational the culture has become.

Or I'd go off on just how fucking pagan easter really is, how the date is always on the first Sunday after the first full moon of Spring.

But tonight, I'm just gonna admire the pretty beads and hope to get to see one dangling from a woman's supple neck, over her exposed cleavage.

Rather enjoying the new me, and I toast myself by gulping down the last of the 151.

And though my eyes water for a moment, it barely fazes me. I'm as drunk as I ever have been, feeling no pain, feeling no nausea, and ready for more.

Also realize that once again, I'm the only person alone in this bar, a fact I intend to change. One more 151 and I'm going to work up the courage to talk to a woman.

Order my second 151 and hand over my last $5--so much for buying the potential damsel a drink. I'll have to win her over with my charm and sharp tongue.

Now that I'm suitably warmed up, consume this 151 much faster than the first as I size up the room in search of a woman horny enough--or desperate enough--to approach.

While some do seem horny and more than a few seem desperate, none seem truly approachable.

Reckon I could just obnoxiously stumble into a couple of random females and gauge their reactions, but I'm just not feeling it from any of the dames in the joint.

Wait, who's that near the front of the bar? Think she just walked in...

She seems vaguely familiar, but I'm so plastered, could be imagining that.

Hard to get a clear look at her, so many fucks in this bar, it's hard to see through the clusters of couples and friends in between her and me.

Even with roughly a third of my last drink left, decide that I am drunk enough to muster the courage to walk across the bar and approach her.

Pass by the candy girl and regret not having any more money--would love to buy her some beads. Women love getting presents, no matter how crappy they are.

Pushing my way through person after person, (some of them large jock yup dudes or transplanted Amazonia yup chicks) moving to the door, till I get close enough to see that she's got red hair. And while she's with at least a couple people, she doesn't appear to be attached to any guy.

Again, am so snoggered at this point, that doesn't seem to register...

Only a couple more folks to get past till I get close enough to tap her on the shoulder.

She turns around from the friends she was laughing with to look me right in the eye.

god damn. It's her.

I thought it was just going to be some reasonably random hot single chick who just walked in.

Not her.

Not the redhead from xmas even, New Year's Eve, the movie set. She's always been so close, yet so out of reach.

And yet here she is, looking at me...

"Yes, can I help you?" she asks with a half-smile and an expression that's half-bothered, half-confused.

Talking to me...

Even if I was stone sober, wouldn't know what to say...

But I'm being spontaneous, so does it really matter what I say?

I think not...

"Uh, didn't I see you on a movie set...?" I slur half-assed.

She seems intrigued: "Which one?"

About to tell her about seeing her on the set of Shepherd...but do I really want her to know I'm some loser extra?

"No, that wasn't me" I say sloppily, and it doesn't make a lick of sense.

She turns back to her friends and they all laugh at how drunk and stupid I am.

Hold up my finger as if telling her to"wait a minute" and then down the rest of my drink, the last third of it.

And then I find how just how shitfaced I am as the room goes topsy-turvy, and any semblance of reason on my part is out the door.

Begin to wonder if she is as big as alcoholic as I've become. I mean, she seems to frequent every bar I do.

That's right! New Year's Day--I mean New Year's Eve. She was there, too. That's what I should fucking ask her about, if she's into that band I like. Can't remember their name right now, which I guess I need to do if I'm going to ask her about them, don't I?

Damn, it's right on the tip of my numb tongue...

Distracted by that when I catch sight of the candy-girl again, and know what I have to do...

Stagger towards her and snatch one of the bead necklaces out of her tray, and sorta half-whisper, half-shout to her over the din of the pulsating music, "I'll have to borrow--uh, owe you for dese, 'mkay?"

"Either pay for those or put them back!" she shouts at me, but I'm trashed enough to ignore her...

And turn to the redhead to present my gift...

Which she wants no part of, waving her hands, refusing the gift and motioning that I should really give the beads back.

Now this is the point where backroad logic would kick in and I'd give the candy-girl back her necklace and apologize to her, the redhead and anyone else in the bar not yet drunk enough to be offended by my heinous actions.

But that road was washed out when I downed the second 151 and I choose to put the necklace around the redhead's head, but in attempting to do so, I pull the necklace apart, snapping the string and beads fly everywhere.

Inexplicably, I bend over to retrieve some of the beads bouncing every which way, in a vain attempt to somehow reconstruct the necklace the redhead obviously didn't want in the first place.

But lowering my head only makes me that much more dizzy and I can can hear the redhead and her friends all laughing their asses off at me and the candygirl is screaming that a drunken asshole stole one of her necklaces and now broke the fucking thing.

Sweating profusely as I drop to my knees, scooping up any beads I can find rolling next to this high heel or that patent leather shoe...

Until I feel myself being scooped up, literally pulled up by the collar of my jacket right into the face of one big motherfucking Somoan type dude with slicked-back hair and a nasty disposition.

Must be the bouncer, cause he drags me behind him and promptly bounces me off the pavement.

I'm out the door along with my previously departed reason.

And all I can think of is that I never got to say goodbye to the redhead.

And the pathetic thing is, that I am so fucked up at this point, the whole incident has me laughing uproariously, leaving the few bar patrons who were out on the sidewalk having a smoke to switch from snickering at me to scowling their faces at me for being such a loser drunk.

See, it's no fun if I'm enjoying my misfortune as much as they are...

Eventually manage to pick myself up off the pigeon shit stained sidewalk and regain my footing and balance, but I couldn't tell how long it took to accomplish that feat.

Part of me was hoping the redhead would take pity on me and rush outside and help me up and give me a chance to explain...

But I'd just fuck that up too.

How pitiful am I, relying on pity as the basis for meeting a woman?

Even though I'm still drunk as a skunk, the faintest glimmer of sobriety must be ruminating, because it dawns on me that none of what just went down was really very funny, that I embarrassed the hell out of myself and have hit a new low tonight...

If it was possible to get lower than earthworm droppings.

Lucky my apartment's just down the hill, maybe I can slip inside before anyone sees me or where I live...

No, scratch that. I do not live.

I just exist.

And quite poorly at that.

Entry V--Wake Up Call (Part 2)

FOR THE BEGINNING OF THIS ENTRY AND THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF DARWIN BLINKS, SCROLL DOWNWARD

Ms. Cabal continues, "After my formal schooling, it was time to embark on a career. But rather than follow the traditional path of either becoming a vice president at Christian Technologies or a socialite attending party after party around the globe, I moved to New York and worked as an editor at various publishing houses in New York.

"Not that I was any better than a corporate executive or a socialite--it is simply that which I chose to do. Despite the fact I came from high tech money and my father was always on the cutting edge of holographic technology, I was always attracted to the simple, visceral pleasures of books.

"After spending about a decade as an editor, I spent another ten years as a literary agent, to acquaint myself with that facet of the industry.

"Once I had a working knowledge of both sides of the publishing business, and the secured knowledge that the best writers were typically unpublished writers, I took a measly portion of my inheritance and formed Apogee Prose. A publishing company in which those unpublished writers would see their books in print. Nonfiction and novels that stand the test of time and alter the culture in some fashion.”

She has me intrigued enough to ask:

"Any books even someone as ill-informed as I may have heard of?"

"I fail to find ignorance an endearing quality, Darwin. Do not flaunt it in my presence," the words so icy it elicits a physical reacton; goosebumps on my arm.

But true professional that she appear to be, it's nothing for Ms. Cabal to drop her annoyance and calmly answer my question: "Have you heard of the book Constellation?"

First inclination is to say "No" but then I drudge my memory and the title rings the proverbial bell (and even that pains my still soggy noggin).

“Yeah, I have heard of it. It was about…sex, right?”

Sounds like I'm guessing and she doesn't hesitate to correct me, "Sexual politics to be specific. I take it you never read it?"

“No, but then I usually don't read books per se. Though I do read about books, like reviews and news stories on books. I spend my free time writing."

"Is that so?" Ms. Cabal asks, almost rhetorically. Almost like she knows I stopped writing.

Normally I choose what to say in a conversation in order to direct the flow of that conversation. But with her, it's damn near impossible--she's doing all the directing.

Regardless, decide to steer clear of that topic, "I remember reading that Constellation caused a lot of controversy."

"Many of my books do," she assures me, almost in the tone of a promise.

"Would you say that Constellation altered the culture, like you mentioned before about your books in general."

"Without question. A number of Ivy League universities did in fact change their policies on what defines “sexual harassment” and cited that book as an influential factor.

“Constellation was rejected by every other publisher the author's agent submitted to because it was viewed as unmarketable. All publishers save two are essentially slaves to the profit margin. With my considerable fortune to fall back on, Apogee Prose is not threatened by the dreaded "bottom line.'"

That must be comforting.

"And that threat is non-existent, as Apogee Prose has generated profits since our fourth year of existence, which actually did not exceed my projections. That is because I knew there was a viable audience for the type of literature we publish. However, I was fully prepared to accept operating at a loss indefinitely--even for decades if need be.

“On the other hand, being profitable also enhances Apogee Prose's' stature in the publishing world--it doesn’t appear as if I am running some kind of vanity or subsidy press, but that we are a growing, competitive corporation. Those are the games I must play, so I play them>

If she doesn't care about profit, why play them? But I don't dare ask--that would be challenging her.

It’s all very impressive, but I’m stuck on a minor detail (as usual): “You said every publisher is a slave to the profit margin "save two? Which is the other publishing company who doesn’t care about profit?”

“New Millennium Books, the publishing wing of the Crusaders of the New Millenium. They actually do operate at a loss, I happen to know, despite their claims to the contrary.

"Though they lie to the public about being successful, they can justify it internally because it enables them to spread their propaganda.”

How does she know they're lying? Suppose money can buy you any kind of information on just about anybody. Even about someone who flies under the radar like myself.


Hmmm. A sultry multi-billionaire who shares my opinion of the Crusaders? This could be an interesting alliance, if I were able to write for her.

If I were able to write for anyone.

But do I want to let her know that?

Really hoping she doesn't ask.

Then, if picking my mind and using it against me, Ms. Cabal asks: "What are you writing now, Darwin?"

Really want to lie to her, to tell her I’m working on three different pieces at once…

But I can’t. Not to her, not to that voice.

Still, I’m not able to answer her completely: “I haven’t been published since last year, in the summer. And that was the only time I was published all of last—“

“Obviously I know that you were only published once last year, Darwin. I believe I have already demonstrated to you I am intimately familiar with the breadth of your writing. That is not what I asked you, and I would appreciate it if you could answer the question.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Cabal. I…suppose I was…afraid to tell you that…I …haven’t…written anything…since, since last xmas eve.”

She laughs, and there's no escaping her mocking tone: “What an interesting choice of a day to quit writing. It is almost as if you had simply given up to the forces you once so passionately rallied against.”

She says it so clinically, yet it's a slap in the face more painful than a thousand hangovers.

But her very next words are like a comforting arm around my shoulder: “Also, Darwin, you should never be afraid to tell me anything.

Then, just like that, she's got me back under her thumb: "Actually, the only thing you should fear is when you do not tell me everything.”

Despite the fact she doesn’t want me to feel it; the fear’s still scurrying up and down my spine--and she knows it too, that's why she won't let me get away with evading the brutal truth: "Tell me why you stopped writing."

My pitiful fear is clearly no match for her fearlessness, so I open up in a way I haven't done with my closest friends, let alone a virtual stranger on the phone: “I just got tired of writing for no one and nothing.”

“What about for yourself, or is that notion so alien to you? What about writing for the joy of writing, in and of itself?”

Defeated, I answer in a hushed tone, but one that’s equally as honest as my previous reply: “That's just it, Ms. Cabal--there was no more joy--just stagnation. It wasn’t fun at all. I’d stare at the computer screen and repeat myself, basically. I wasn’t inspired to come up with anything original.

“I just don’t have the same…passion for it any more, especially when no one was going to be reading anything I wrote."

“Yes, Darwin, I am well aware of the opposition you have felt recently from most editors. They feel threatened by you, because your work flies in the face of the irrationality they are presently foisting on their readership. They have convinced themselves that your point of view is no longer relevant to their readership.

“Trust me, Darwin, no one was more disappointed than I that your writing was no longer appearing in print.”

“Do you know anything about it, Ms. Cabal? What, with all your insider connections, I figure you might know if there is any organized effort to censor me from getting published.”

Once again I elicit laughter from her, "“Do you mean to ask me if there is any sort of "grand conspiracy" at work against you? I can assure you there is not, Darwin. While there may indeed be a “grand Christian conspiracy,” on the macrocosmic scale, it does not involve you, microcomsically speaking."

Really want to ask Ms. Cabal what she knows about the "grand christian conspiracy" (is she a member of my Internet coterie of researchers? Nah, couldn't be...), but I fear that would be too far off the subject and she would dismiss any further discussion on the subject.

Not to my surprise, Ms. Cabal continues with no further mention of conspiracy, “No, the reason you no longer sell anything is simply a case of the editors who formerly published you--including Mr. Barrett--now lack the courage to do so, due to the cultural climate with which you are familiar.

“Editors are afraid of your subject matter, that you are willing to challenge Christianity’s influence in America. However, that is the very reason I think your writing could be crucial in stemming the tide of theocracy."

Gulp, the "T" word. She done gone and used it right out in the open, again showing more balls than I or any of my Internet geeks have ever displayed, despite all of us being of the male persuasion.

Also want to ask Ms. Cabal if she really thinks that it’s possible, that my writing could actually have such an impact on putting christianity in its place.

But she wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t think it to be true and if I asked her, it'd just piss her off.

And even if I had the courage to ask, she hits me again:

“Darwin, have you ever attempted to write a book?”

“Attempted? No. Thought about it? Yes, many times. But I was never able to come up with a theme that would make it a cohesive piece of work. It would just always end up being a string of essays, so I figured it made more sense just to write shorter pieces."

“Unfortunately your "sense" was all too common--in that you accepted the easy path without pushing yourself to the outer edge of the spiral. I am here to tell you that your writing is more than just a random series of essays. If you choose not believe me, read them for yourself.”

“I will, because I’m fascinated by what you said about them, I want to see if they come across, unified like you say."

“They will appear that way, Darwin, so long as you open yourself up to that possibility. You should really get to know your writing better. Do not hide from it.”

She sees right through me.

And then, she just asks it as casually as if she's asking me my favorite color:

“So, Roger, are you going to write a book for me?”

Something about her asking me that so blatantly sets me off, not just mentally, but physically; my palms are dripping wet, head dizzy and rushing, stomach nauseated, losing the feeling in my arms and legs…

Replaced by a sensation that I’m becoming extremely tiny…Either that or the receiver is becoming extremely huge.

Even each individual hole of the receiver expands to Grand Canyon proportions...

Easily big enough for me to be sucked into...

But to where I know not.

Only know that it's not here.

No longer on my bed, but in the midst of a white void...

Perhaps blank void would be a more fitting description...

Where seemingly nothing exists but me.

Yet something is happening, as I begin to see the impression of a shape(?) forming…or at least, coming into view.

It's far out in the “distance” (if perspective even means anything here), so it takes a few minutes (though it could be hours), but I begin to see a circular outline form…

The FireWheel?

Has to be. And the “white” is not my surrounding, but the white-hot intensity of the FireWheel.

The white isn’t separate from the FireWheel, as I come to realize it is all...one. Not even separated from myself, not really.

Weird thing is, even though I had the sense the FireWheel was coming at me; it's not like it's growing, but rather shrinking, allowing me to take in the detail all the better; the fiery reds, yellows and oranges. Not long before I distinguish the “spokes” of the FireWheel.

Until finally the FireWheel is all I can see and the white has disappeared completely.

And then the FireWheel burns hotter than it ever has in any of the previous daydreams.

So hot that it draws a flood of sweat from my brow...

Burns until it chars pure black…

And the smoldering black ruins of the FireWheel collapse and reassemble as a book, that book, the title staring me right in the face

Bye Bull

But this time, the letters of the title fade away (that hasn't happened before)...

Until all I'm left with is black...

As black as the white was...

Until I sense a light beyond the black...like when my eyes are closed in a room with a lamp on.

Ah. All I have to do is open my eyes and I'm back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, one ear on the phone that has returned to normal size, mouth on the receiver with holes that have returned to normal size.

And it's like no time has passed since Ms. Cabal asked me the question for which she still waits for a reply.

Maybe I imagined all that because answering that particular question is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, but it's all I can say and I'm more afraid of lying to her than I of admitting:

“I’m…sorry, Ms. Cabal. It’s just that…I don’t think I have a book in me…for you to publish.”

A stillness falls on the phone, in the room, and beyond, I imagine.

Not sure if she’s going to explode...or hang up and never call me again...

All I know is I can’t breathe while waiting for her reply.

Much to my relief, it appears to be one of acceptance: “I appreciate your candor, Darwin. I know you to possess the utmost integrity when it comes to your writing. Therefore, you do not wish to produce any work that is not of the highest standard. You would not hand me a book which was written half-heatedly.”

“No, Ms. Cabal. Never.”

“I know you would not, Darwin. Regardless, I want to make my position perfectly clear. I do not “believe,” nor “think,” I know you have a book inside of you, a great book, waiting to be brought to life. When that time comes, Darwin, I want you to call me.”

“Believe me, Ms. Cabal, if I ever chose to write again, it would only be for you. It’s like…you are the one person that was always meant to read me.”

“While I happen to be your biggest admirer, Darwin, it is your destiny for your writing to be read by millions. This, I can make possible.”

And it doesn't matter that all we've shared is this phone call...

I am in love with this woman...

And I would do anything for her…

Except for the one thing she wants me to do and I can’t.

Not yet anyway, but she seems to be okay with that:

“I want you to know, Darwin, that my offer for you to write a book for Apogee Writ is an open one. If you would like to hire an agent in the interim, I can refer you to some very good people. However, you could forego an agent’s take and cut a deal directly with me. I am prepared to offer you a very generous percentage of royalties.”

That sounds fair. I’m prepared to offer her my life…

“That’s v-very kind of you…Ms. Cabal," I respond, barely able to get the words out: "I know you would do great things for my… writing.”

“I will, Roger, and you know it to be true. However, the choice is yours. Get a pen, I want you to take down my number.”

“Just one moment, Ms. Cabal.”

Cast aside my hangover as I leap from the bed to fetch a pen and a random opened envelope off of my desk. Don't want to keep her waiting, not ever.

“I’m ready, Ms. Cabal.”

Jot down her number on the envelope, and then she adds, “That is my private, direct line. You should be able to reach me 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

Can't help but wonder, does that include while she's in bed or nude in a hot steaming shower?

She makes it clear that it does not: “However, you are not to call me just to “chat” or for any other trivial, non-professional reason. Do you understand, Darwin?”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal.”

“When you are ready to write for me…call me, Darwin.”

“I will, Ms. Cabal.”

I don’t want this phone call to end, and wrack my brain for some way to keep the conversation going, like I have any say in the matter.

“Oh…and, Darwin?”

“Yes, Ms. Cabal?”

“Keep in mind there is at least one person out in the world waiting for your book, but that I am merely the first of many."

Even though it sounded more like a command than encouragement, I still appreciate it.

“Thank you, Ms. Cabal.”

“You are welcome, Darwin. Good night.”

“Good bye, Ms. Cabal.”

Not sure how much time passes until I finally hang up the phone. Didn't want the call to end and I meant it.

So many thoughts rushing through my head, yet my mind is clear.

And I feel completely refreshed, as if yesterday’s abuse is behind me.

Wonder if the hangover subsided because all the blood has rushed from my head to my dick?

Ms. Cabal turns me on like no woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe because I’ve never seen her.

No, that isn’t it. I’m attracted to her for so many reasons; her intellect, her insights, her blunt honesty, the way she doesn’t play games, her self possession.

Her power.

And the funny thing is, I’m usually repelled by power, by displays of dominance.

But with Ms. Cabal, it gets me hard.

To where I'm past the point of no return...

Gotta put this fire out.

Head to the bathroom with the single purposeness of a lioness on the hunt to feed her cubs.

Sit down on the shitter, jeans around my ankles, squeezing my big hairy balls, stroking my ever growing cock, all the while thinking about Ms. Cabal, imagining what she might look like.

Occurs to me that I could get up and probably find a picture of her on the Internet, famous as she is, but that can wait, I’m too excited to stop now, as I continue to slide my hand up and down my shaft of rigid flesh, her powerful voice ringing in my ear the whole time.

("Actually, the only thing you should fear is when you don't tell me everything.")

Oh yes, Ms. Cabal, I want to tell you everything, I will tell you everything. Just name it, and I'll do it, it's yours.

I am a pathetic loser humbled before you. You are everything I want and I will do anything to...serve you.

But as excited as I'm getting, for some inexplicable reason, another face keeps intruding in on my fantasy.

Not just a face, but hair, too.

The redhead, the one I see everywhere I go.

I desire her, too.

But not with the uncontrollable lust I feel for Ms. Cabal, so it's not too much of an effort to put the redhead out of my mind...

And focuse solely on the image of a leggy woman standing before me, obscured by shadows, commanding me to climax in her name...

And when I do come, it's like a thousand supernovas explode in my mind, seemingly better than any orgasm I've had during actual sex, inside of any other woman.

Thoroughly spent, it's all I can do to clean myself off and stagger back to bed where I fall asleep almost instantly, eager to sleep and dream about Ms. Cabal.