Another Detective's Tale of Courage and Pity

Welcome, if you will, dear readers as I introduce the second installation of the world-famous Detective Lance Brickland in this scandalous mystery entitled:

Lance Brickland and the Case of the Falling Tree

O tortured babysitters souls. Cry out and find what makes life worth—O worth—living. I’m no magician, ye gods I’m no magician. Although in the 15th year of my O so dismal and distraught birth of epic and indeed atrocious proportions—Ihop size, minus the stuffed French Toast. O Devils upon the brand of safe glory and comfortable wastes of thought and taste bud. Why? O why do you tempt me with neverending stories—and coffee—to make me sing upon the cancer of the lives you bring for less than 15 dollars a date. O the blue, the white, the ambience all combining for undead tales of ribaldry and lust—O what evil babysitters lurk within eateries of all natures, stalking, legs pumping, O how the mouth works the syrup in O so many sensual and—nay, to not go on, to continue the story of the magician himself—more like the mortician. Of my very soul.

Lance Brickland, detective of detectives, a bloodhound has many enemies and Lance—O Lance—is not different. The gumshoe of our archetypal dreams, has the luxury to scheme—nay to concoct pleasantries to greet the likes of us babysitters on the street, and why not? A mind as beautiful as Lance…O, once I came upon a mind as luxurious as a Buick. Aye, the pain of my eyes upon such sumptuous brain. I fancied myself a zombie—a night walker and tore into the mind of benevolent cunning and eerie disposition. The aborigines believed to eat the grey master brought virility—and this babysitter is no different from said tribes of my own wicked imagination.

O to be a lonely babysitter. O Lance Brickland find the thing most missed in this pool of chaos and fools paradises past from the beach of contempt and the beast of pride circling in the mist of forgotten Novembers and sing the praises of the Gods of ancient lore…

Ah, a vision you say—Loki transforms himself into the golden beast of who mothered the eight-legged Sleipner. While still masquerading as a mare, he spots a young strapping Dionyssus—wine overflowing from horns of glory. Whose horns, but Pan’s—the goat, the myth, the style. O how they wander the earth looking for a sympathetic ear to express their grievances of obscurity and nihilism. Loki proved himself a tyrant and enacted “plan action,” to which Pan acted like the demonic spirit possessed yet demented and spry, but O the adventure of Loki giving them a ride as a mare. Pan on the front, Dionyssus on the back, holding on as this winged and wondrous bird of prey (really a horse) flew into the unblinking son to shake off his hooved captors. While this goes on, Odin watches with his eye in the sky whilst touching himself. O my, how goes such blasphemy in this humble babysitter’s abode.
A case worthy of Lance Brickland himself.

Sports...

Hello, my pets:

Ah, sports...what makes life great, but a day of deceitful glory embodied in galavanting young bodies in conflict and desire thrusting their souls like past tales of monumental honor and curiousity. As such, who better than to write a prose for those play to win and captivate the only audience fit to behold such tasks of gallant hypnosis that can only be described as Pavlovian: O the adventure, O the passion--to be found in this narrative tale of love and contemplation entitled:

Missing an Arm is not Necessarily an Evil Trait

Little Ronnie woke up. His bright eyes took on the glories of a brand-new day. Oh, he thought with a start, it’s the big sports day. Hooray.

Ronnie was so happy he had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t in the land of nod. His flippers could not execute this simple act. Oh no, Ronnie thought to himself, flippers? Why, why that means I’m dreaming and it’s not morning!

The implications were immediate and severe—with no morning there is no sports to come. Ronnie knew what he had to do; he would have to battle the sandman himself, the one-armed Rick Moranis (our antagonist for this whimsical story) in a contest of wits.

He never lets me sports, thought Ronnie. I’ll have to go to his lair and slay him like the callous demon he once was.

Ronnie needed two things—a weapon and a companion—to make this a journey fit for a hero. Ronnie was deep in thought: a sling shot is too biblical, a gun is too predictable and I’ve never allowed knives in dream world. What’s a young boy to do? A boy with dreams, yes aspirations, hopes. O cruel one-armed Rick Moranis, why do you torture me with portending futures of no sports. Have you no soul?

That’s when it hit Ronnie—he would need a soul defibulator to battle this menace of the eighties. And who would help young Ronnie with the application of said defibulator, why Doogie Howzer—He’d do just fine.

Ronnie made all the right arrangements and filled up all the right paperwork. The notary tried not to laugh when Ronnie couldn’t sign the defibulator rental form with his flippers. Oh, what young boys do for sports. Doogie, alas, wasn’t available. He was much sought for in the land of dreams and used Ronnie’s offer for leverage to sign a multiyear contract to obscurity and comfort.

A call was made to Paul Reubens. Luckily, he was free. The journey began slowly but surely. Ronnie and Paul Reubens struggled to connect at first, but the possibility of a land without sports proved to be something of an aphrodisiac and magically the tension was lifted. Oh no, though Ronnie, I’ll need to change my underwear for sports in my waking life.

Paul Reubens looked deep into Ronnie’s eyes and said, “How is this dreaming life different than our waking life, youngster? Are our senses not aflame with passions in both? Are they not, but two eternal sides of the same equation?”

Ronnie noticed that Paul Reubens only had one arm. “You, oh no, you aren’t Paul Reubens at all. Nooo.”

Evil one-armed Rick Moranis cackled gleefully, “I’ve now captured your soul and sports will disappear…forever.”

Ronnie woke up, changed his underwear and played sports. One-armed Rick Moranis wasn’t invited.

A marrow-sucking tale for all you hipsters....

Ah, I now begin my weekly cycle of short spooooky stories, lucky readers. Mehahahahaha. This one's entitled:
All Abdicate Eventually

Hosfad was mad. At least he thought he was furious. How could he know? Was this tied to a chemical disparity in his brain? Is fury more chemicals in the left than right hemisphere? Where does “Hosfad” come in to decide this? All he knows is what he thinks; therefore he has to grasp on to the idea that he is an autonomous individual in a world rocked by subjectivity and monstrosity. If his independence is now being undercut by chemical levels how can he act?

This is all he had. His subjectivity was an anchor in the otherwise restless seas of chaos and confusion. Now even Confucius can’t temper what lies beneath, if what lies beneath is a Dopamine deficiency in quadrant four.

Nobody can save him from terrorists if they suffer from the impulse of sexual frustration which attacks the frontal lobe with the velocity of a meteor. If all that separates Hosfad from eating his companion’s heart with a spoon is the regulated activity from the limbic system to the cerebrum, then how can he be sure he even exists as more than a slave to structure? If the desire for freedom is tied to the chain of dependence through chemicals than what can Hosfad do—or say—to contextualize the horror of day to day routine.

There is no context, we are slaves. Not only that, but there is no “we” for us to be slaves. We are worse than slaves in that we’ll have no dreams of freedom as the dreams are electric pulses connected by synaptic fluid, from which Frankenstein’s invisible hand can tamper with and force bestiality upon cats and infants from Malaysia.

What Hosfad needs is a way to break free from his brain. If the idea of Hosfad only exists from the byproducts of chemicals than what does he have to break free from? What logic is there in escaping from yourself, if you have no self to break free from? If logic is to be found then we must break the mind from the brain at all costs; a mind to act independent from the brain and one that won’t act in the interest to the brain, but instead to inflict irreparable harm to the grey master (matter). Only then can Hosfad feel what it means to be a soldier. Conquer the chemicals and he captures the concise nature of holistic being.

Hosfad grabbed the hot pants. He didn’t ask why. Wars, historically, don’t make sense; why should this one be any different? He sprinkled some glue in the crotch area. He strapped the hot pants on his head, so his nose was inhaling the liberating flow of glue directly into ancillary market of his mind. That’s right, mind! He now knew the autonomy of the Nation State from the essence of his soul. Hosfad was born anew. No, Hosfad was born for the first time.

He appointed a cabinet. A bicameral system. The opinion was unanimous; Hosfad would be dictator for life. Nobody could stand in his way. The brain provides the tools. Hosfad provides the fist. He would need to be merciless to the rogue impulses fluctuating like cruel waves. He would use violence to ensure peace. He climbed the mountain of precious piety and found himself a lover indeed. The love of one’s spleen can only have adventurous outcomes and this marriage was no different.

Foreign policy proved difficult, but precious. Sometimes the hardest decisions prove to be the most fruitful. Every cancerous canker sore was meant with contempt. Then the alliteration bug was crushed with devious deviations of a…..Well, in any case after that was obliterated, Hosfad could settle down and work on domestic policies. He enacted resolutions, made trade agreements, had State dinners, but never got drunk on wine or power. The system of checks and balances proved to be a winning combination.

A combination to the heart, but the spleen understood that a mind as powerful as Hosfad could not be happy with but one lover. The heart proved seductive, enamored with the victory over the sadistic brain. The brain proved useless in the counterattack, as Hosfad slit the throats of all the men and forced the women and children into slavery. After the brain’s last struggle, Hosfad could finally retire in the hard fought peace he so richly deserved.

He lived a long life and was remembered as a fair and just king. He built schools, churches, paved roads. He taxed, but not too much. He kept his citizens out of the dangers of war and had the Wisdom of Solomon. He never cut babies in half unless the situation was dire. He even let women vote. When Hosfad died, the schools, churches, roads and even the women died with him. All white blood cells mourned. All red blood cells bled. All kidneys let loose uric fluid. All tear ducts emptied. Half babies found their partners and all joined hands until darkness—sweet darkness—swept over Hosfad and carried them all into oblivion.

An Ode to Tim Prosser

At least all you lost was your ball in this neverending struggle for dignity and fortitude. I emerged from the doldrums no less a man than a sheep in wolves wool. O the tragic nature of my life; O the everlasting days of yesteryear; O the poetry lurches from my grimace like a constipated snake late for the wedding, but early for the funeral. Lamentations upon lamentations seek sanctuary and why should I be any different. Well the proverbial city remains the beast of the east (west) in o so many ways (myriads even) ah, a diaspora from my flesh oozes across the continental--nay, the worldly--like o so many balls of menace, throbbing, hipster's court, no don't find the ball of lost years like seas that stretch upon the days of our youth and drop in a pre-columbus state of mind down, down it goes, follow it you shall perish, but leave behind memories that will last until the next drop off down into surt's sword of flames!!

So, firstly some 'thank yous' are in order, but where to even start a ledger, which will open it's gaping mouthgina to resurrect the spirit of days and nights (O the nights, breathe upon me the delectable taste of desire, O desire let me sing on to thee with thine bosom of gold and savagery. O how I've felt upon my lip of lips the true, bold, and beautiful blossom upon my childhood. Sting me, nay bring me your followers like I talk shop upon thee wounds of eventual triumph and cry upon the souls of what's lost: my dignity.

Solace to be found in our worldly ways are not necessarily a new idea, but a true ideal shines through any smog to be found in this city of fallen idols--Billy Crystal? Bob Balaban? And through the smog permeates a light that can only be described as Prosserian, yes we all shall join hands in this fog of our brilliant end until nobody, but the king of rainmakers--or the son--the earthshaker himself and his illegitmate son who he almost aborted with the thrust of his hips--the cyclops himself--the father--Poseidon bring Tim glory and safety in this, his last days of nubile youth and wash it down with nectar--drink of the Gods!!!!