A Cockwork Orange

by Edtrin

Inside joke between me and my friends. If you read it and you're not one of them, you won't lawl. EXPLICIT LANGUAGE

There was me. That is Jesse, and my two droogs, they are Trenton and Karl. And we sat at the Everest Burger restaurant trying to think about what we were going to do with the rest of our evening.

We wore these black like outfits, me with punk patches all over my skinny, black body. I had on this, like, black helmet that sort of resembled a WWI German helmet. My droogs wore the same type of thing, except Trent in white, and Karl in red with a fedora. He claimed it was classy.

Karl, as always, ordered a large plate of Frency-Friesies, and Trenton a Nude Dead Cow, which me and they called "a hamburger with nothing on it." I myself went with the poultry sandwich. This would sharpen us up and get us ready for a bit of the old Ultraviolence.

We walked among the streets like the creatures of the night we are. It was about 1 in the morning and there was absolutely nobody viddying around, until we came under a bridge and heard noises coming from some strange, dark creature laying on the floor. We heard him singing.

"Looooovely iz da feeeeeling naoo

Feverrrrr iz da tempratoor naoo

Powerrr iz da force da vowwww

That makes it happennn it asks nooo questions whyyyy"

This strange fiend had long hair that resembled black, burnt cheese puffs, and a voice that slurred nearly every word it said. One thing I could never stand was to see a filthy, dirty drunkie, howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and going blurp blurp in between as it might be a filthy old orchestra in his stinking, rotten guts. I could never stand to see anyone like that, whatever his age might be, but more especially when he was real young like this one was.

"Ayy boi, wanna gimme a dolla?"

I had this, like, long stick that a jabbed him with. He simply yelled:

"Ah fuck."

"What's your name, old sport?" I asked him.

"Why duz it even matter? I jus' wanna dolla."

"You see," I told him. "I can't stand to see drunk tramps like you, my friend. Laying out in the open and disturbing the peace the way you are."

"Drunk?" he asked. "What're you talkin' 'bout?"

"I heard your voice slurring, my friend."

"That doesn't meen I'm drunk. Thas juss the way I tolk. Now can I have a dolla?"

With a quick flick of my neck, me and my droogies stating beating this ape like creature, I with my stick, Karl with his drum sticks topped with a blade, and Trenton simply with his fist.

The creature laid there in a pool of his own blood, and simply pulled out his cellular telephone and started to read. Me and my droogies decided it was time to head west.

We found ourselves somewhere around a lonesome Target like place, and there were a bunch of strange people walking around dressed up in like costumes of animals and foxes and cats. They were getting ready to rape a crying young girl they had picked up from somewhere.

Me and my droogs cannot stand to see the innocence stolen from such a young weeping lady and walked up asking what they were up to.

"Well, well, well," I said. "Why doth thou prepare the old in-out in-out on someone much smaller than you, brothers?"

"Well," one turned and looked at me. He resembled Tom Petty a bit. "We are protesting against the Target here, see?"

"And why must you do that, brother?"

"Because Target discriminates against furries! We are people too!"

"So why steal the innocence of this youth, might I ask?"

"Oh, her? We were just horny as fuck."

He turned to look at his victim who has, since me and him exchanged words, vanished into the night. He turned to me and looked at me with these large, beating eyes.

"What the fuck?" he said. "You'll pay for this!" He and the droogs of his own stood in these animal-like war poses.

Me and my droogs got ready for battle, and I exchanged words:
"Come and get one in the yarbles! If you have any yarbles, you yunich jelly, thou?"

He looked rather confused.

"What?" he asked.

"It means I'm gonna kick your ass!"

And that's when me and the droogies rushed towards them and them back at us. I swung my stick, hitting the animal-like creatures upside the head and seeing the glorious red vinno spill out of their noses. Karl stabbed them when they came to close, and they would shriek a loud, shrill tone before falling and weeping. Poor Trenton, fighting with his fist, would get a cut now and then, but for the most part, he was okay.

And in the matter of five minutes, they were all knocked out. We continued assaulting their bodies, when far off in the distance, we heard the sounds of sirens.

"Stop!" I yelled. They did, and then I heard the sirens get louder. "It's the fuzz! Alright, come on, let's go!" And we ran out of there, brothers, in a jeep owned by Karl, and we sped down the street looking for more adventures to go on.

At first Karl drove, but whenever we stopped, he would say he felt like he was still traveling. He must have taken an old puff from his long paper, so I took control of the vehicle soon after, I did, my niggas.

We drove and drove, knocking over mailboxes and even mowing over a motorcyclist before we found a quiet area somewhere down Sand Canyon. We parked out vehicle and got out, creeping around, when we spotted this large house.

We snuck up to the front door and knocked. A skinny young chap with glasses and a large head opened the door, but not completely, in case he knew we decided to break in.

"The fuck do you want?" he said.

"Excuse me, sir!" I said. "I've been in a little accident and my friend is seriously injured! May we come in and get a glass of water?"

"Hell no, nigga," he said. "That's not my problem!"

"Please, mister! It's a matter of life and death!"

"Edwin, who is it?" yelled a deep voice from farther back in the house.

"This faggot here," Edwin exclaimed. "Says one of his buddies is hurt and he wants a glass of water."

"Well let them in!" the voice said. "We don't want them to get hurt, do we?"
"Ugh," said Edwin. "Fine, hold on."

He closed the door to unhook the lock. This is when me and my droogies slipped on the masks we had so we wouldn't be notices. I had this mask that goalies where when they play hockey, Trenton had this blue ski mask, and Karl had a mask he bought at a Slipknot concert a few years ago.

The door opened, and the chap was wearing a really stupid shirt that had a picture of Beethoven on it, with a caption that said "Y U TRIPPIN'?" That's when I realized this young boy was no match for us.

When he saw us with our masks, he said: "What is this, Hallow-fucking-ween already?"

We then throw ourselves into the house, grabbing this young lad who kept yelling "AY" as loud as he could, and circling the corner, we saw this taller fellow with long hair on one side of his face and short hair on the other. He had these eyes that were lined with make-up, and he stared at us walking in.

"What the fuck?" he yelled, and I simply ran up and kicked him in the face. He fell back on the floor, and Karl held his arms behind his body. "Who the hell are you guys? Get out of here!" he yelled.

"No need to worry," I said. I looked at his computer and he was writing some kind of short story. 'The Cancer in the Rye.' He must be writing some new kind of story that won't we released for a little while. I turned back to him. "We were just in town and thought it would be nice to get a little action."

"Well, not from me," he said, and pointed to his buddy who was being held back by Trenton. "Rape him! He's the faggy one!"

I looked over to the skinny one. Normally I wouldn't rape any men, my niggas, but this one looked like a real bitch. He made the other one look real tough and manly, and he was wearing female cosmetics. Besides, I felt a bit sick to my stomach after I saw those furries attempt the rape the little girl earlier, but I was in the mood for causing discomfort to somebody. So this man it would be.

But I hadn't the energy, so I sung my favorite non-punk song, "The Hamsterdance," at the top of my lungs, and ran around kicking over everything until they'd break into pieces. The two men living in the house would yell at me and ask me to stop, but I wouldn't do that.

Finally, Trenton took the young, skinny man with the Beethoven shirt, and bent him over I table. The site was repulsing, so I guarded my eyes and penetrated him and pretended I was doing it to a member of Pussy Riot.

I was getting into it for a little while due to my little fantasy, but I soon realized that it wasn't going quite as I expected because the young man was laughing and saying "MORE MORE" very loudly. This instantly made my erection shrink, and Trenton forced the boy to the floor, and I stomped his head in with my boot.

The other one thanked me because now he didn't have to listen to his roommates Beastiality Porn from the other room, but me and my droogies decided to beat him silly, too. When we were finished, we looked at our work, which involved a destroyed house with two bleeding, whimpering bodies laying in the middle of it all, one thin bugger with blooding pouring out of his eyes and teeth scattered all over the place, and the other with a bloody nose and two legs bent in different angles. We turned around, went back to the car, and traveled back to Everest.

We sat in the restaurant having only soda, and sitting quietly at our both near the back of the restaurant. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw three men wearing business suits talking to one guy who had piercings and a Mohawk. He was smiling.

I assumed they were some sort of business moguls, the ones who work in the Hollywood Studios, discussing plans with this young man. Then he opened his mouth and in the short silence before the next one came on, he suddenly came with a burst of singing, and it was like for a moment, O my niggas, some great bird had flown into the restaurant and I felt all the malenky little hairs on my back standing endwise, and the shivers crawling up like slow malenky lizards and then down again. Because I knew what he sang. It was a bit from the old Holiday in Cambodia by the Dead Kennedys.

Then Trenton, being as big and rude as he is, exclaimed very loudly: "R.K.L IS BETTER." And without even flinching, I whacked my stick down onto his lap and he exclaimed "fucking niggers!" after it echoed. He turned and looked at me.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" he asked.

"For being a bastard with no manners and not a dook of an idea how to comport yourself publicwise, O my nigga," I told him.

"Dude, you're an asshole," he said. "And I'm not your nigga no more and wouldn't want to be."

I turned and looked at him slowly.

"Watch yourself," I said. "Do watch yourself, O Trenton, if to continue to be on live thou dost wish."

He knodded and looked down.

"You're right… sorry… a little tired, I think. I was up all night watching 'My Little Pony' again and haven't slept in about a day. Bedways is the bestways now. GG?"

"GG," said Karl, who sat beside him.

"GG," I said, and we all went our separate ways.

I lived with my parents down the road a bit, next to a hospital. After a couple of years of hounding around for the night, they stopped questioning where I was, as long as I got home safe. It was nearing 4 a.m., and I was sure they went to bed hours ago. I got in my bedroom and removed my clothing down to my trousers.

It had been a wonderful evening and what I needed now to give it the perfect ending was a bit of the old Darby Crash. I dropped the needle on the turntable and the Lexicon Devil began to play.

O bliss, bliss and heaven, oh it was gorgeousness and georgeosity made flesh. The drumming redgold under my bed, and behind my head the guitar three-wise, silver-flamed and there by the door the bass rolling through my guts and out again, crunched like candy thunder. It was like a bird of rarest spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a space ship, gravity all nonsense now. As I listened, I knew such lovely pictures. There were young concert going motherfuckers laying on the ground screaming for mercy and I was drooling all over my rot and grinding my boot into their tortured faces and there were naked women ripped and creeching against walls and I plunging into them.

I left the record playing, and I lied on my bed and let the music whisk me to sleep.

I awoke to the sounds of my mother's sing songy voice talking to me through my door.

"Jesse! Jesse, dears!"
"What d'ya want?" I said, having the groggy feeling of just waking up.

"Jesse, you have to get up or you're going to be late for school!"

"I'm not going today, mom. Headache. Legs are sore. I just have to take the day off."

"But you haven't been to school all week, Jesse!"

"I've got to rest, mom... got to get fit, otherwise I'm liable to miss a lot more school."

I heard her sigh. "Alright, I'll be heading out then. I'll see you when I get home."

"Love you, mom. Bye."

I heard the door slam and I closed me eyes and fell back asleep.

I decided to treat myself to a trip down to the old Ameoba Record Store. I entered and walked around, seeing the many visitors feeling excitement over their favorite records being found in the discount bins. I myself when to the desk in the jazz section, which is where you pick up your orders, for I had a couple of Minutemen and Raegan Youth albums to take home.

While I was standing there, I noticed two ladies standing next to me. One was really attractive, with long, red hair, and the other had big teeth and blonde hair with a Nirvana shirt. While the shirt was nice, I wasn't a fan of the girl behind it. But I wanted to bring this redhead home, even if it meant bringing her friend with me.

"Why hello hello hello," I said to the ladies. "And what brings you pretty young things to the record store today?"

They giggled, and the redhead talked to me. "What're you getting? The Damned? Ramones? Buzzcocks? New York Dolls?"

I slid my hand on top of hers. "What do you have back home to play your hardcore vinyls on? Can't be as good as the hi-fi I have in my bedroom." I swung my arm around her, and she moved closer toward me with a smile. "Come with Uncle and hear all proper," I said. "Hear angel guitars and devil bass tones. You are invited."

Unfortunetly, she refused to abandon her friend, and we went back to my house. We sat and listened to some more mellow stuff the red head picked out of my dad's collection, and I was luckily able to move them into my room and play them some Circle Jerks. With that, I could feel the energy in the room build up, and the red head ripped off her shirt and jumped on me into my bed. The blonde one soon followed. By the time 'Parade of the Horribles' came on, all three of us were fully nude and I was penetrating the red head. I convinced myself not to have sex with the blonde one, but I did massage her clit with my hand. I didn't find her remotely attractive at all. Then the vinyl needed clicked, indicating the record was over, and the three of us laid in my bed. I had fully ejaculated all over the red head, and she had her arms wrapped around me.

The blonde one got up and flipped through my records. She grabbed my copy of "Milo Goes to College" signed by Milo himself. She was very rough with it.

"Hey, I know this guy!" she said. "Isn't he on the Dummies book collection covers?"

I jumped up, grabbed my stick, and whacked her across the face. She dropped the record on the floor and fell down with it. I swear if that vinyl cracked, she was going to be dead. I beat her with the stick, the redhead trying to stop me, but I turned to her and beat her silly, too. Soon, their ribs were cracked and faces were bruised, and they grabbed their clothes and ran out of my house without even putting them on.

I laid back into bed and looked at the clock. I realized it was nearing 6 already, and I had to meet the droogies in front of the restaurant soon, so I threw on my clothes of the night, and left my house.

"Hi, hi, hi there," I said to the two of them, who were waiting for me on the benches in front of the restaurant.

"Hullo," Trenton said to me.

"Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well," I said. "And what are the plans for the night?"

"Look," Karl said to me. "We need to have a talk."

I sat down on the bench, wondering what Karl had to say.

"I'm sick of these shitty uniforms," Karl said to me. "We need something more grunge. Screaming Trees. Alice in Chains. Soundgarden. Something that is cooler than these… disgusting, sound-the-same punk bands."

I felt the veins in my head begin to grow, but I held my anger back.

"We think it's part of the new way," Trenton said.

"New way?" I asked. "What's this about a new way? There's been some very large talk behind my sleeping back, and no error. Let me hear more."

"Punk is dead, Jesse," Karl said, beginning to pace around. "And you're living in the past with your records and patches and cocaine-induced speed music. It's not cool anymore. Grunge is fresh and cool again. Weed and chilling, that's what the people are doing now. So I think that if we completely changed our image, we would be one step ahead of the other gangs."

What Karl was saying was complete bullshit, but I humored him, and gave him a smile.

"Alright, mate," I said. "You seem to know what you're saying."
Karl gave a smile like he didn't expect me to give him positive feedback.

"But we need money," I said. "Any suggestions on what we are going to do about that?"

Now he was smiling a lot, and Trenton was laughing like they were scared of my answer.

"First," Karl said. "Wing Stop. Everest is getting old. We will discuss the plans there."

"GG," I said, and we all went on our way.

As we walked along the sidewalk by the lighthouse lake, I was calm on the outside but thinking all the time, so now it was to be Karl the Commander, saying what we should do and what not to do, and Trenton as his mindless, grinning bulldog. But, suddenly, I realized that thinking was for the gloopy ones and that the brilliant ones use like inspiration and what God sends. I knew what had to be done.

I swung my stick and wacked Karl right in his crotch. He screamed and cringed and kneeled down to it, in which I kicked him in the face and he fell into the lake. Trenton came behind me trying to attack, but I punched him in the face and pushed him in as well.

Karl came out of the water gasping for air, his face red with the beautiful blood that poured out of him underwater. I took the end of my stick and jabbed him in his mouth, and two teeth fell out. They were rotting from all of the marijuana he had been smoking, anyway. More blood came pouring out, and Karl grieved, knowing he was defeated.

After they cleaned themselves up, we found a McDonald's and we sat in there instead of Wing Stop. I stared them in the eyes, and they both looked ashamed.

"Now, let me make this quite clear," I said. "We know who's in charge and who's been in charge since the beginning. Well, now we're back to where we were. Yes? Just like before and all forgotten? GG?"

"GG," Trenton said, but Karl remained quiet for a second.

I glared at him. "GG," he finally said.

"Well, Karl," I said. "This idea you've got for tonight. Well, tell us all about it then."

"Not tonight," he said. "I wanna go home. Smoke and listen to some Oasis."

"Come on, Karl," I said. "Don't bitch out. Tell us what you had in mind."

He remained quiet for a minute or two, and finally said his idea.

"It's this Mansion. A bit out of the town. Isolated. It's owned by this like very rich rap producer who lives there with his cat. He's completely on his own, and it's full up with like gold and silver and like jewels."

I knew this would be a great opportunity to win back the trust of my dear droogies, if this plan went as well as I hoped. So the three of us got up and went on our way.

We found it, this giant, white house. We planned it out the same way we did to the writer and his roommate, my niggas, and I went and rang the doorbell. It made the opening tones to "Big Poppa" by the Notorious B.I.G.

This caramel colored fellow opened the door. I recognized him from Amoeba. I see his records all the time. He was The Notorious Ol' Dirty MF A$AP Mena. I didn't realize he lived so close.

"WHADDYA WANT?" he said. "I'M GETTING READY TO PRODUCE SOME NEW BEATS FOOL SO THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT BECAUSE IF IT ISN'T OHMAHGOD YA'LL GONNA BE GETTIN A CAP IN YOUR ASS I PROMISE YOU THAT BECAUSE I AM A$AP AND I'M LAYING DOWN TRACKS."

"Excuse me sir," I said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but my friend is in the middle of the road, bleeding to death. The ambulance is on his way. May I please come in and get a glass of water?"

"NIGGA THAT AIN'T MY PROBLEM," he said. "NOW GET DE FUCK OUT UNLESS YOU WANNA GET SHOT."

Then the door slammed. Me and my droogies had to come up with another plan. We circled the house and saw a window open on the third floor. I put on my mask, then Karl climbed onto Trenton's shoulders, and I climbed them both like a latter, entering the window.

The house was very hot. Like fire. Like someone was creating fire and it had burned hot. I heard the sounds of A$AP Mena echoing down the hallway, and I walked down there and looked into the room.

There he was, rapping and rhyming and singing o who knows what else, a black and white cat sitting up on his desk. This room was even hotter than the hallway. It was so hot, I began to sweat.

I looked all over the walls. Posters and posters of A$AP on every single magazine cover you can imagine. And in the corner, a giant, golden statue of a mixtape. It was glorious. I walked over to it, but I was seen by the rapper.

"AY BITCH, I SAID DON'T COME IN!"

"Hi, hi, hi there, at last we meet," I said. "Our brief govereet thru the letter hole was not, shall we say, satisfactory, yes?"

"WHAT KIND OF JIVE ASS LANGUAGE IS THAT?" he said to me. "NIGGA, I SPEAK STREET."

I looked at his golden mixtape and reached over to touch it.

"NIGGA NO DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH THAT IF YOU TOUCH THAT I SWEAR YOU GONNA BE DEAD MAN I WORKED HARD TO CREATE THAT MAN AND I SWEAR O I SWEAR IF YOU TOUCH THAT YOU GONNA BE DEAD."

I picked it up and aimed it towards him, as if it were a giant ram that I was going to destroy him with.

"O I'M LAFFIN," he said, and began to rush toward me, swinging his arms all over the place. "SWING FIRST NIGGA SWING FIRST I AIN'T GOING TO JAIL NAH NO SWING FIRST SWING FIRST SWING FIRST SWING FIRST."

And swing first I did, oh my niggas. But I underestimated how lethal my swing would be, and the mixtape completely slashed A$AP Mena in two. His legs fell to the floor, his ribs all over the room, and his torso up falling flat to the floor, all covered in the glorious red liquid.

He looked around the room at all of his ribs. He opened his mouth and yelled: "MY SIDES ARE GONE."

I couldn't let him survive, so I walked to his head and crushed him with the giant mixtape, and his brains and teeth scattered all over the bedroom, like a giant Jackson Pollack painting. But then I realized, o my niggers, that I had never killed anyone. Paralyzed, yes. Beaten, yes. But never murdered. I began to panic and ran to the front door.

Outside, I saw my loyal droogies run towards me.

"Guys, we have to go!" I yelled. "I waisted him on accident!"

"Alright, one second, faggot!" Trent yelled, and punched me straight into my nose. I fell to my ass, and I felt blinded, and my own blood began to cover my hands. Trenton and Karl laughed, and ran off into the distance. Next thing I knew, the police had me in their custody, and I was going to be in jail for a long, long time.

This is the real weepy and like tragic part of the story beginning, O my brothers and only friends. After a trial with judges and a jury, and some very hard words spoken against your friend and humble narrator, I was sentenced to 14 years in Folsom Prison among smelly perverts and hardened black people, the shock sending my dadda beating his bruised and anguished fists against unfair God in his Heaven, and my mom, boohoohooing in her mother's grief as her only child and son of her bosom, like letting everybody down.

After two years in prison, I changed a lot, o my niggas. I began to help the Prison Priest and the guards with their Sunday Sermons, and even helped with the music chorals. I hadn't heard punk in all the time, o my niggas, and while I missed it, nearly anything melodical began to tickle my fancy.

Then one day, it was announced that President Ryan Gibson was going to come to Folsom personally and meet with a special prisoner to test out their new experiment.

Guess which prisoner he picked?

That's right, George Zimmerman. But then President Gibson realized Zimmerman was a dick, and he picked me.

I sat down with President Gibson in an enclosed environment surrounded by Secret Service members.

"What crime did you commit?" he asked me.

"The accidental killing of a person, sir," I said to him, very respectfully.

"He brutally murdered a woman, sir," said one of the guards. "In furtherence of theft. 14 years in prison."

"Excellent," President Gibson said. "He's enterprising, aggressive, outgoing. Young. Bold. Viscous. He'll do."

The next day, I was relocated from the prison to a new, almost hospital like place. I was put in bed and a nurse gave me a whole bunch of needles and pills and stuff.

"What's all of this medication for?"

"Oh," she said. "You're just going to need it to be ready for the treatment."

"What exactly is the treatment here going to be then?"

"It's quite simple really. We're just going to show you some films."

I cocked my head in curiosity. "You mean like going to the pictures?"

She moved her eyes slowly towards me. "Something like that."

"Well, that's good," I said. "I like to watch the old films now and again."

And watch films I would. Where I was taken to, niggas, was like no place I'd been in before. I was bound up in a straight-jacket and my head was strapped to a headrest with like wires running away from it. Then they clamped like lidlocks on my eyes so I could not shut them no matter how hard I tried. It seemed a bit crazy to me, but I let them get on with what they wanted to get on with. If I was to be a free young man in a fortnight's time, I would put up with much in the meantime, my niggas.

So far the first film was a very good professional piece of cinema, looked like it was done in Hollywood. It was a man, being held by gang members, much like the ones me and my old friends Trenton and Karl were, and being beat up silly. The sounds were real awesome. You could feel the screams and moans very realistic and you could even get the heavy breathing and panting of the people at the same time. And then, what do you know, soon our dear old friend, the red, red blood on tap. The same in all places like it's put out by the same big firm, began to flow. It was beautiful. It's funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you see them on a screen.

Now all the time I was watching this, I was beginning to get very aware of like not feeling all that well, but I tried to forget this, concentrating on the next film, which jumped right away on a young girl, who was being given the old in-out, in-out, first by one gang member, then another, then another. When it came to the sixth or seventh member, I began to feel really sick. But I could not shut my eyes and even if I tried to move my eye balls about I still not get out of the line of fire of this picture.

I heard President Gibson, sitting in the back of the theater, talking with the guards he had sitting back there with him.

"Very soon now," President Gibson exclaimed. "The drug will cause the subject to experience a death-like paralysis together with deep feelings of terror and helplessness. One of our earlier test subjects described it as being like death, a sense of stifling and drowning, and it is during this period we have found the subject will make his most rewarding associations between his catastrophic experience and environment and the violence he sees."

"What the fuck does that mean?" the guard said.

"It means that this nigga is going to be FUCKED. UP." President Gibson exclaimed.

After the films, I was brought back to the hospital room. I was still feeling a little woozy, but after a few hours of sleep, I woke up feeling better, but I dreaded what the films were going to be like that day. I didn't want to feel sick anymore, o my niggas and only friends.

President Gibson personally came and visited me.

"Well, that was a very promising start," he told me. "By my calculations, you should be starting to feel alright again. Now tomorrow there'll be two sessions, of course, morning and afternoon."

I felt my stomach begin to drop. "You mean I have to watch two sessions worth of movies in one day?" One session yesterday made me almost vomit. I couldn't imagine what watching another one would be like.

"I imagine you'll be feeling a little sick by the end of the day," Ryan said. "But we have to be hard on you. You have to be cured."

"But it was horrible," I said.

"Nigga, of course it was horrible," President Gibson said. "Violence is a very horrible thing. That's what you're learning now. Your body is learning it."

"I just don't understand about feeling sick the way I did. I never used to feel sick before. I used to feel the very opposite. I just don't understand why, how or what."

"You felt sick yesterday because you're getting better. You see, when we're healthy we respond to the presence of the hateful with fear and nausea. You're becoming healthy that's all. By this time tomorrow you'll be healthier still."

I thought to myself there's no way a President of the United States could sound as intelligent as Mr. Gibson, but I trusted him, and went with him to watch the movies.

It was that afternoon, niggas, and I had truly done my best, morning and afternoon, to play it their way and sit like a well behaved co-operative boy in the chair of torture, while they flashed nasty bits of terrible movies on the screen. This one I watched in the second session was called "Don't Be a Menace," and it didn't make me laugh once, even if it mocked violence and sex. But for some reason, there was no dialog. The only sound was music. Then I noticed in all my pain and sickness what music it was that like cracked and boomed. It was Circle Jerks, "Live Fast Die Young," Group Sex.

I screamed as loud as I possibly could, and I begged and begged for them to turn the movie off.

"Turn it off!" I yelled. "I can't watch this anymore! This movie is shit! It's bullshit! It's bullshit!"

"Bullshit?" I heard President Gibson say. "What's all this about bullshit?"

"That!" I yelled. "Using The Circle Jerks like that, they did no harm to anyone. They just wrote music!"

"You're talking about the background soundtrack, aren't you?" he asked me.

"Yes!"

"You've heard the Circle Jerks before?"

"Yes!"

"You're a music fan?"

"For Christ's sake, yes!"

"It can't be helped," he said to me. "Here's your punishment element perhaps. I'm sorry, Jesse, this is for your own good, you'll have to bear with me for a while."

"You needn't take it any further, sir! You've proved to me that all this ultra-violence and killing is wrong and terribly wrong! I've learned my lesson, sir! I see now what I've never seen before! I'm cured, praise God!"

"No you're not!" he yelled. "Now shut up and watch the movie!"

"But sir!" I yelled.

"Simon says 'shut the fuck up!'"

"I see that it's wrong!" I yelled. "It's wrong because it's like against like society. It's wrong because everybody has the right to live and be happy without being beaten and knifed!"

"JUST SHUT UP," he yelled. "SHUT UP NOW AND IN A FORTNIGHT, YOU WILL BE A FREE MAN. WATCH THIS PIECE OF SHIT MOVIE, THEN YOU WILL BE FINISHED."

I did finish watching the movie, o my niggas and only friends, and afterwards I puked, all over the place. It was a horrible movie. And the way it ruined punk music for me will further my hatred for it.

But President Gibson was truthful. He let me go after a series of tests to see if I would fight anyone back after they beat me up, and I just couldn't. I felt sick everytime I tried.

I was released from prison after being locked up and raped and beat for two years, and I went home.

Unlucky for me, though, my parents had sold all of my belongings, and even rented my room to another music lover named Enrique. He looked even edgier than I could've imagined. My parents told me that I wasn't the badass I was and to GTFO, newb. And so I did. I wasn't welcome back into my old home.

I walked along the bike path, and I looked off at the dirty river bed. I had nowhere to go. No home, no money, no friends, absolutely nothing.

But then I heard footsteps approaching me.

"Ay boi," a voice said. "Couldya gimme a dolla pls?"

I turned and looked at the direction of the voice, and that strange, dark creature who me and my droogies beat up two years before was standing there staring at me with those dead, dead eyes. I don't think he recognized me at first.

"Uhm, I'm sorry," I said. "But I haven't any money."

"W8," he said. "I think I know u. Yeh! Yeh, I do! Nobuddy's ever rejected me 'cause that'd be racist, but u did! U, that kid ho smelled like weeeeed, and the fatass with teh neckbeard! You beet up!"

I tried running away, but he jumped on me and started hitting me with his phone.

"Imma get you back, boi, u bet I am," he yelled.

"Hey! Hey, nigger!" a voice yelled. "Get off of that guy! Don't make me beat you!"

"Fine, fuck off," the creature yelled, and scurried away. I looked up at who this blessed human being who saved me was, and it was a policeman. But I recognized this policeman. It was Karl! And Trenton, in another uniform, was following him!

"Oh FUCK," I yelled.

They began to laugh at me.

"Well well well!" Karl said. "If it isn't the supposed edgiest man alive! And how are you lasting nowadays, buddy?"

"How'd that treatment go? It's all over the papers," Trenton said. "Say, Karl, I don't think we got our revenge if they let dear old Jesse out early."

"Yeah," Karl said. "Come on, Jesse. We're taking you somewhere special."

"Piss off!" I yelled.

"Get the fuck up, Simon Says!" Trenton yelled, and they grabbed me and dragged me away.

They brought me the lake I beat them at two years prior, oh my niggas, and they did the same to me. After being punched and pushed into the water over and over again, Trent exclaimed: "Boom shaka laka, get that shit outta my face!" and punched me straight in the nose as he did that one night before, and I fell into the water.

I felt my body float back up, and someone was kind enough to pick me up out of the water and bring me to a warm home. I was too out of it to see who it was, but I had muttered "Thank you" many times.

I was laid on a couch, and when I woke up, I saw who it was. And would you believe it, O my niggas and only friends, there was your faithful Narrator being held helpless, like a babe in arms, and suddenly realizing where I was. For before me stood the writer, his long bangs, make-up and all, standing over me sympathizing with my pain. But I knew I was safe. I knew he would not remember me for, in those carefree days, I and my so-called droogs wore our masks which were like real great disguises.

"You're lucky I found you," he said. "I was out walking my poodle and saw a body floating in the lake. I pulled you out and you were breathing. You feeling okay?"

"Yeah," I said nervously. "Yeah, I'm feeling alright."

"Now, what happened, exactly?"

"The police... The horrible ghastly Police! They beat me up, sir! The Police beat me up, sir!"

He began to run his eyes and scan my face. "I know who you are!" I thought I was fucked for a minute, but then he continued. "Isn't it your picture in the newspapers? Didn't I see you this morning on the video? Are you not the poor victim of this horrible new technique?"

"Yes! Yeah, that's me!"

"Jesse, I believe. Jesse Chavez!"

"Yes, sir, that's me!"

"Adam Weideman, it's my pleasure!" and he reached out and shook my hand. "You have been sent here by providence. Tortured in prison, then thrown out to be tortured by the Police. My heart goes out to you, poor, poor boy. Oh, you are not the first to come here in distress. The Police are fond of bringing their victims to the outskirts of this town. But it is providential that you, who are also another kind of victim, should come here. But you're cold and shivering. Here, I'll draw a bath for you. You're soaked."

He got up, and left to go upstairs. I leaned my head back and sighed a breathe of relief.

He came back. "You're bath is ready," he said. "I can go for a snack. OH. Maybe I'll call for a pizza."

The bath was warm, and I hadn't felt this relaxed since that day I took those two ladies home with me and fucked them silly. I was so happy I began to sing. But I wasn't careful with the song I sung, for it was "The Hamsterdance" that left my lips. I caught myself after a minute, but I was hoping Mr. Weideman didn't hear me, for that would give away my cover.

Unfortunately for me, when I went down to dinner, he glared at me. He gave me my food, and just sat there, glaring at me.

I took one bite and he yelled "FOOD alright?" I nearly choked.

"Yes, it's very good," I said. "Thank you, sir."

"Here," he said, handing me an open bottle of Diet Pepsi. "Have a drink."

I hated Diet Pepsi, but I didn't tell him. I was already on thin ice. I drank it, and thanked him again.

I continued eating, but it was quiet and awkward, with Adam still glaring at me.

"My roommate," he said after a few minutes. "He used to do make all the noise in here with his damn trombone and fetish porn. It was never quiet in here. But I let him to it and it became white noise after a while."

"Your roommate?" I asked. "Is he away?"

"No," Mr. Weideman said. "He's DEAD." I felt my stomach drop. "He was very badly raped, you see. We were assaulted by a gang of vicious young hooligans in this house, in this very room you're sitting in now. I came out alright, but he fell into a depression because the rapist didn't finish when he began getting into it and he killed himself."

I felt shaken up, and I sat back realizing that I have killed two people in my life and have only been punished for one.

"But enough about me," he said. "Tell me about you."

"Uhm," I said. "Okay. What do you want to know?"

"The newspapers mentioned that in addition to your being conditioned against acts of sex and violence, you've inadvertently been conditioned against music."

"Well, er, I think that was something that they hadn't planned for, you see, sir, I'm very fond of music and always have been, especially punk music, like The Circle Jerks. And it just so happened that while they were showing me a particularly bad film, of like a spoof of black people or something, the background music was The Circle Jerks."

"So now you have the same reaction to music as you do to sex and violence?" he asked me.

"No no, just 'Live Fast Die Young.' It's a song, by them, The Circle Jerks."

He sat there nodding and glaring at me.

"I feel very low in myself," I said after a while. "I can't see much in the future, and I feel that any second something terrible is going to happen to me."

Next thing I knew, it was black. The Pepsi was poisoned.

I woke up in a bedroom upstairs, and I heard the sound of "Live Fast, Die Young" blaring from downstairs. That's when I knew the writer recognized me, and wanted his revenge on your poor humble narrator.

I screamed and begged for the music to stop, but it wouldn't. And when it ended, it played over again. I didn't know what else to do, so I opened up the window and jumped.

I jumped, O my niggas, and I fell hard but I did not snuff it, oh no. if I had snuffed it, I would not be here to tell what I have told. I came back to life, after a long, black, black gap of what might have been a million years.

I woke up in a hospital, and after weeks and weeks of physical therapy, I was visited by President Gibson.

"Hey buddy," he said. "Feeling alright?"

No, I wasn't. But I humored and respected him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I said. "And what about you, Mr. President?"

"Oh, well, the government has been in hot water since you jumped out the window. I can tell you that I... and the Government of which I am a member are deeply sorry about this, my boy. Deeply sorry. We tried to help you. We followed recommendations had been made to us that turned out to be wrong. An enquiry will place the responsibility where it belongs. We want you to regard us as friends. We've put you right, you're getting the best of treatments. We never wished you harm, but there are some that did and do, and I think you know who those are. There are certain people who wanted to use you for political ends. People who would have been glad to have you dead because then they would have been able to blame it all on the Government. I think you know who those are. There is also a certain writer of subversive literature who has been howling for your blood. He's been mad with desire to stick a knife into you, but you're safe from him now, we've put him away. He found out that you had done wrong to him, or at least he believed you had done wrong. He had formed this idea in his head that you had been responsible for the death of someone he know. We put him away for his own protection... I'm sorry, I thought you were ready."

"Where is he now?" I asked.

"We put him away where he can do you no harm. You see we are looking after your interests. We are interested in you, and when you leave here you will have no further worries. We shall see to everything... a good job on a good salary."

"What job and how much?"

"We want you to be the official badass of the United States," he told me.
"And what do I do as that?"

"Anything you want."

Anything I wanted? This started to sound good. It made me want to forgive them for all their wrong doings.

"Oh yes, I understand you're fond of music," he said. "I have arranged a little surprise for you."

"Surprise?" I asked.

"One I think you will like... as a, how shall I put it, as a symbol of our new understanding. An understanding between two friends."

And wouldn't you know it, in came every member of every punk band still alive and well, standing in front of me, jamming away on their guitars and basses, and drums, every song I could imagine coming from every corner of the room, and in the center, The Circle Jerks, playing the glorious "Live Fast, Die Young."

I did take the job, oh my niggas, but the dear old President and Vice President were killed when their plane crashed into the new World Trade Center, and it was I who was the successor to the White House. And I sat there realizing that I can get away with anything I wanted.

It was war and destruction I created, and I slept with all of my interns, and I slept with other world leaders of every ethnicity from every country, and everybody in the world looked up to and wanted to be Jesse Chavez.

I am the one and only Jesse Chavez.

And thinking back to the treatment, I realize that I'm back to my old, jolly ways.

I was cured, alright.