Marketing Of The Hero

"Be careful, or I might skin your cat." the man said, laughing maniacally. "Just joking." And that's how you skin a cat. While he never really said he'd skin my cat, it might as well have been that. Even when dipping it was warning he'd dip an ice cream cone on my head chilling me to the bone.

I had never seen my father sense I moved out of state. It has always been one of those things, I never liked comedy. With the latest batch of porn pills I took, I found I couldn't control the lucid nightmare I was in. There was gargoyles staring at me by the bed. While logically I had no reasons to assume such creatures were in my motel room, I couldn't get to sleep for nights upon nights. My friend calls me paranoid, I call it merely guarded. But I never took nightmares as funny. Rather than taking them in stride, it would always remind me of times I would get lost in the corn fields. I would meet with strange devils who lead me in the direction of home.

The next morning I found myself feeling drained, my inner life energy being the fluid of tub that constituted my skull. And my ability to think was marred by overbearingly mundane mental visuals of reality. It was that calm before the storm, that feeling of being merely a worm stomped on by a S.W.A.T officer's boot. Only these officers were demons from the farthest reaches of hell.

It was a strange city, filled with gargoyle statues. They were of a large stature. The statues of stature stared down like ominous omens from the beyond. The gargoyles like totalitarian enforcers of draconian supernatural laws. They would feed me to creatures of the night, being tossed in their jaws.

The region of strange laws.

Every time I look at statues, I find myself staring upon strange art that was not really art but being from beyond frozen in time. It is a nightmare reality, although my psychiatrists say the gargoyles are not really there.

But I've seen them, they converge on me at night.

Those creatures, hungry, feasting on my fright.

Yet the psychiatric hospital said they could help me.

And yet I still see their faces at night, the gargoyles are doctors now. They looked upon me as their food cow.

They prod me, and inject me with needles.

I am frozen in time, on an examination chair in a doctor's office. "So what is the problem with you?" the man said.

"I am surrounded by demons." I said to the gargoyle man.

"I think you should ween off the porn pills. Can I see your pill bottle?" he said.

I showed him the pill bottle.

"I thought they recalled these years ago." he said.

I remembered the look on the gargoyles face.

The look of my father.

I cared not her name, the dame with bright blond hair. She wore multiple colored blue jeans similar to torn jeans not torn all the way through, and had an attitude that could win her millions in depth to dept collector if they were still a thing. Her white t shirt shined in the light.

Now here is the weird thing, she didn't seem to mind the fact that I admired her ass, although she seemed to mind my friend admiring her ass.

It has always been a weird thing for me. For whatever reason it seemed like the girls that tended to pay the most attention to me tended to be bitches. I hoped this meant that it was because they felt envious, and not so much that there was something inherently bitchy about myself. She was amongst a crowd of attractive women who seemed to consider me some vague sort of object for jealousy. Which is strange as I never found myself to be something of worth. It reminded me of how nice girls tended to not pay much attention to me one way or the other, and on some level I actually liked them better because of this. Now I realize some may view ignoring as not being nice, but when you go through life not trusted people sometimes being alone is what you need.

Me and a friend went to a local coffee shop, cost us a little over twenty bucks. We exchanged words about the value of a romantic comedy about a Jewish girl dating a Japanese guy, and the conflicts between Judaism and Shinto. That's the thing about coffee shops, they bring out the weirdest conversations in you. As we left I admired a Japanese girl in glasses and Jesus Sandals. I had a thing for girls in Jesus Sandals. Don't kink shame OK, you don't kink shame people for like heels.

We were at the store and bought ourselves some food, and signed up for a digital writing competition. I've never been a competitive person, so I'm not sure what the experience is like. I also met with a neighbor, who experienced racial profiling by the local cops. She said she might helps us with a guide to finding cheap apartments. I suppose we'll see.

Now I'm at home, admiring bitchy blond in Jesus Sandals.

Girls in Jesus Sandals.

There were many names for our neighborhood: Hell's Corner, Calla Lillie lane, among others. But the only one that really managed to stick was Purgatory Road. Purgatory Road was a home for being sent to live the rest of their lives; it was a kind of financial prison among the socially damned. You could live hear five months, and never hear of anyone getting a Gold Rush.

One girl and one girl once lived here. They are gone now, lost to time. Yet the imprints of time still remember them, as they lived the rest of their lives. They started a group of writers, of which I'm a current participant. There was a kind of unspoken blood oath amongst us, as we spent our next few months with the moths. We live the lives of those punished for their sins, living the rest of our lives with renewed childhoods all over again.

But it had warped into something darker.

It warped into something less easy to define. In this world forsaken by those truly the opposite of the divine, we exist in our own personal purgatory. As lovers we write each others stories, we write songs to each other like bleeding hearts. We admire the gargoyle statues in the city. We join together despite having lives otherwise shitty, and suppose each other and the lives damned.

We are the living who are socially dead.

Here in Purgatory Road, they say the life expectancy is twenty three, I would give it about a couple more years for me at the most. Already I am aged beyond many of my personal kin, here we our lives repeat all over again. Some of us have committed suicide, others survive with barely a thread of mental faculties. Others are permanently changed for the rest of their lives.

It is Purgatory Road.

Were young lives come to an end.

It is Purgatory Road, where we dine with the dead among the living in shadows. Where we haunt the dead as conscious ghosts, haunting them as their past in perpetual motion forward.

And yet life is merely a dream.

A lucid nightmare dream.

Sometimes in life, people long for heroes. Sometimes in life, we long for saviors to rescue us from our life's torment. And yet in society, it prescribes you specific heroes rather than allowing one to create one of their own. We live in a culture of hero worship, like times of old.

I had decided for myself I needed no heroes, although I wouldn't say I am one myself. Rather when you see life for how it really is, and realize that everything that know and love is a lie, all of sudden the people society prescribe to be your heroes no longer matter in the long run. I remember when my first experience with them, was through marketing. One of the first things I got was plates with this one specific super hero. Throughout my life I would see various idols placed on canned foods, and other products. They call it modern day mythology, but unlike old mythology a company couldn't sue you for using an icon.

And yet now, instead the old heroes, what you have is a world where big businesses are able to sue you for using their super hero, except through specifically allowed fan fiction. And yet there is a cultural expectation of not creating your own heroes, and merely rehashing the old material and lore. And yet society also says that fan fiction is inherently awful, although many writers get their start with it. For me, I've never had a hero, and I've never needed one.

I am a hero onto myself.

It was the evening when my dog would never return from the vet. I would sleep in my bed all morning and night, hoping that it was all a lie. Although I never made the jokes, sometimes I would here comments about hitting the dog was with a baseball bat. In real life there are not heroes, and there are laws against masked vigilantism. It isn't surprising the same nation that would ban masked heroism would also try create mass campaigns in order to lobby for making firearms illegal. While I've never been an advocate for them, the reason they don't want us to have them is clear to anyone with a critical thinking brain. They use organized mind-control on people, put them in a controlled environment where they go insane, and them train them with those weapons. Then they have this individual comfort to a new religion.

That's what causes the tragedies. They are tragedies alright, and if there was in fact masked vigilantism by trained people, it would have stopped these things. Sometimes you have to look beyond the surface.

See the lies the media tells you.

And remember, it's all a game.

Meanwhile in other parts of the country, broken people put guns to their mouths. They consume bathroom cleaner, or hang themselves. They allow school bullying to run at an all time high, and yet never bother to check on people that give their kids anti-depressants before the age of thirteen.

I was one such kid.

I am a attempted suicide survivor.

There are many reason one might choose suicide. The reasons vary from person to person, and sometimes those reasons change based on new life circumstances beyond people's control. We live in a nation filled with extreme poverty. And yet nobody cares about the poor people. They don't care about anything.

And you don't care about anything.

Not anymore.


Fairy Dust



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