The Police Officer furiously unzips the backpack. A steaming pile of grease on cloth awaits him, and although contempt of legal establishments displays emotion, rarely do Police Officers and officials act as a single organization. They cover facets such as coldness, their faces, while simultaneously crossing cultures with joy, contempt and whining. Chester Patton had no identification with these blue knights, with their controlling take, and whether or not the Police Officer does accept payment, the origin of their evil species is uncertain.
“Okay, but we got to take your photograph.”
“Why my photo?”
“Because it’s just gone 2:30 am on a Tuesday morning. If anything happens in this city tonight, we’ll place it on you.”
Contempt greets the employee, these guys reverse that and give it back out again. Contempt over the world means sitting within the element, the air, utterly - police policing. The bulb stirred Chester’s half-closed eyes.
“You take a beautiful photograph, Mr. Patton. You’re all photogenic. Thanks for you time.”
Both parties departs. There’s a pallid taste of cortical whoredom upon Chester’s lips. I pick up the morning newspaper. Several scientists overseas have managed to read the mind of a man whose been in a vegetative state for the past five years. They have done this with a brain scanner and asked him “If his father’s name is Alexander”. To answer yes, he has to imagine he is playing tennis, to answer no, he has to imagine he is walking through his house. I find out that in this great age, and behind a closed door, scientists are preparing to read the minds of these people, and their remains, which is the consciousness of the living dead, and thereupon the physicians will try to share, and publish, their information, for they are aware that the presence the undead shows to external stimuli is only working to supplicate human thought, whether it be developed by a doctor, or whether it rises and will cause nerves of service to the rest of the living world is unsure.
“Will thinking I’m playing tennis ever help us.” I wonder.
The current and breathing deceased are piss-potted and bedpan strapped to life machines, in some dull and ended Nightclub in London. They’re now the subject of Emeritus Professors who first poise over their thoughts, and these Emeritus Professors burn their findings. They are causing irreversible brain damage to people the world over. Main henchman, alcoholic drug addicts who have grand plans to raise the buried henchmen in the basement, back from the dead, and in some crazy conclusion and culmination, this henchman activates the brains, like it’s something to really behold, and he searches through their musty voices, to see something within them that is nevertheless, them casting themselves into communication without an outside brain scanner. The undead truly asks, “Why thirsty land, if you are the accomplished, bring us the most high for the assessment of the true living, so that we can push us forth through this deathly misery, so that we’re involved more in life … rather than this horrible portal in our ceasing heart”. I draw back on my cigarette. I head over to the State Library. It is just after 3:00 am. I catch sleep until it opens at eight. In the morning, the peat-like sun produces lithe warmth. People sun while events like bashings go on in the street. The following is another argument against ingratitude. I am dammed if I am going to read and adore the world’s fabled knowledge.
Acid Shottas, a novel by Shane Jesse Christmass.
"The purveyors of consciousness expanding LIED! They told you to TUNE IN, TURN ON, DROP OUT – but they did not qualify this statement. Dropping out from what to where to what again. Dropping from sanity to madness, to bad breath, the horrible cheap tab. ACID SHOTTAS is the aftermath. It is the mid-80s. Heavy Metal is rife. It’s pre-MDMA. Tacky, inexpensive acid is on the streets. This is the decade of hate. Cold War. Reaganomics. This is the aftermath. Wolf-shot words written to Dancehall and Acid House..."
"Window Panes, Sugar, Mind Detergent, Microdots, Weddings Bells, Orange Cubes, Hits, Barrels, Tabs, Blotters, Heavenly Blue, Sugar Lumps, Sunshine, Tickets, Twenty Fives, Liquid and Liquid A. All different names for Acid … L.S.D. and then there is Thenailomen. This is Samuel Cowley’s plunge into madness / mysticism / dancehall and acid. An indistinguishable situation of controlling Cohorts and bubbling psychosis. Apparitions flickering across Samuel’s mind. Most of the women hold their Spanish Brandy breath. They do not move. This novel couches literature into counterrevolutionary measures. The essence of the mentally anguished individual stands up for what it is, pitiable. Greetings folks! You'll be approached and watched as you slip your tongue into the Thenailomen. The Nail of Men. Arterial connections. The detective agency shrills, shattering the late afternoon. Silences. Huge creatures stand, bunched like big come-ons. This horrible drug racket. Toy-like like the other sea scum. Fifth Avenue executives. Complex organisms. A yarn chain of parked cars. There’s the door to the hospital. Jittery girls moving in to embrace. Blunt jaws. A boatman comes ashore. The girl’s arms about me, mashing herself against my face, addicted to Thenailomen. Her shoulder. Stumbling among short minutes. The Shoe Co-op around 10am. You are not too caring… This is Vietnam...."
Shane Jesse Christmass is an Australian author. He edits the journal Queen Vic Knives. He’s also a member of the band Mattress Grave. He also firmly believes that the future of the word, the novel, will be in synthetic telepathy. His writing is archived at Lupara Publishing.