So Many Times

Ah so many times,
So many times did this practice bring no practice
but remains practical.
No trivial soft images necessary for imagery
We are all but imagery within ourselves,
“Copies of Copies” as that book once said.
Writing creates monsters, for better or worse.
That monster, is audience, fans,
and fiends.
Fiends and leeches,
the curse of the art world.
no ideas of their own, no hope,
only a pathetic dependency,
not even worth our capital.
Yet they get it,
in spades they try to steal it all,
only to learn that karma
is all too real.

1/31/14

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Revenge Porn and Relationship Privacy: An After-Chat with @DrJaneGreer

Girl Boner

“There is no sexual, visual, acceptable picture without my consent. Without my consent there is only violation.” — Emma Holten

Our bodies and sexuality should not be used as shame-inducing weapons. Who’s with me?

I know Emma Holten is. After an ex posted explicit images of her online, the Danish activist chose to share her own nude photographs on her own terms. *pauses to happy-dance* I adore her for that, and for using her experience as a platform for making positive difference.

sexuality quote

One in ten ex-partners have threatened to release explicit photos post-breakup, according to a 2013 MacAfee Survey. Sixty percent of them act on the threats, and 90 percent of victims are women. Despite these risks, says the report, 36 percent of Americans plan to send sexy photos to their patterns through email, text or social media on Valentine’s Day. I personally don’t see a problem with that. Sharing our sexy selves however we see fit with a trusted loved…

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Gramercy, The Journey of Jack Lewis. Chapter 10

Chapter 10   Nancy

 

Jack walked and walked, depleted of memory or energy.  He felt weak, he needed food and needed it fast.  He was glad to find water fountains so he could drown his dehydration.  Jack hadn’t been in so much pain in years.  So devoid of energy and strength, he felt open and exposed, as if anyone could get him at any time if they wanted to, and it was true.  Any one could get him at this time, Jack was surprised that nobody tried.  Then again they already had.

 

Jack eventually found a mom and pop liquor store.  He walked out with his bags as full as if he had just gone grocery shopping.

 

He walked up half the block before the pop from the store, a sixty something Vietnam vet, fired and reloaded a shot from a small handgun, grazing Jack’s palm, taking out a healthy sized chunck.  Jack looked back and was lucky the old coots eyesight was failing him because he just dodged another bullet meant for his stomach, the last bullet was supposed to go into Jack’s spine.

 

Jack easily outran the bastard but now became aware of the sound of sirens behind him.  Jack thought the sound was coming from at least two blocks behind, and he saw a dumpster ten feet ahead.  He timed it just right and laid low in the dumpster as he heard the sirens pass.  He didn’t hesitate to see how far they were. He just grabbed his stuff and went in the opposite direction of the old coot and the cops.  His palm smeared blood on all his clothes and a big red deformed animal print was left all over the dumpster.

 

The cops hunting Jack would never find it.  They still thought Jack was in Boise.

 

Jack ran grasping his palm in horrific pain.  He took out the pimp’s shirt from his back back and tore a long thin strand of its fabric and wrapped it as tightly as he could around his  hand.  He choked off the bleeding, but couldn’t move a single finger except his thumb.  He could actually see the gap in his palm and see the pool of blood filling it in.  Jack wondered what to do, and he resolved to get the hell out of the city as soon as he could.

 

Jack got out of Portland in a matter of hours and before the day was over, he had entered Washington state.  Jack decided to continue his trek north, as far north as he could go.  Jack would do what it takes, but he resolved he would start a new trek in Canada.  It was far from the authorities and he could fight extradition easily. he wasn’t Leonard Peltier after all, what do the cops have to gain by putting one schmuck like him back into some already over crowded and diseased infested prison.

 

Cops only had the bragging rights to gain, saying they brought in a dangerous, escaped convict. It was all they had to gain by putting Jack back in, and it was all they wanted.  It was all the reason they needed.

 

Some of the guards at Leavenworth even hoped they would bring him back there, and in their hopes were already preparing their taunts and teases for the bugger.  One was going to take Jack’s chains off and leave the front door open and pretend he didn’t have his gun.Then if the bugger made a move for it he would bash his brains into the depths of his bowels.

 

That guard had a heart attack and died the same day he had the idea.

 

Another was going to dangle keys in front of Jacks cage like a game of keep away in an elementary school play yard.

 

Jack was completely oblivious about the fact that the law was going insane trying to bring him in.  The media hadn’t even mentioned the story since Jack first walked out which Jack also hadn’t realized it but that was six months ago.  It had been a whole six months since he saw Kobe Alex and Fiona, he missed them.  Especially the warmth of their home.

 

He decided to camp in a clearing under the stars when his energy was no more.  When he lied down to go to sleep, he could not help but find it a little funny that after he might have knocked up a girl he got shot in his hand.

 

By the time Jack reached Seattle he had finished Ivanhoe and was now beginning The Art of War.  He had been moneyless for days and had stolen every drop of food and alcohol he had when he ran out of goods from the old coot’s store.  The palm caused Jack horrific pain daily, yet with almost everything else Jack saw, he didn’t care.  He honestly couldn’t care less about the safety and cleanliness of his wound, he was more concerned with the lessons to be taught by Sun Tzu.

 

Jack still had no use of his hand except his thumb, but he still managed to get by alright.  The blood had thickened into an almost perfect circle, and had solidified as if Jacks palm had a big red circle in the middle of it creasing into the bottom edge of his pinky.  The streaks and lines on his gushy circle looked like a cross hairs of a sniper rifle.

 

Jack slumped in an alley behind a pizza shop, and stuck his nose in his books, but he was interrupted by the rain.  It started to come down in bucket sized drops, and the wind blew harsh like a tempist storm.  Jack consented to sit in the pizza place until they kicked him out.  He knew that since he couldn’t buy a slice they wouldn’t let him stay too long, but Jack just wanted to be out of the rain.  Now he started to miss his old friends even more.

 

He sat in the farthest corner of the parlor, a 21 year old covered in tattoos came from around the counter and asked if there was anything he could get him.  Jack told him he didn’t have any money and just wanted to get out of the rain.  The obvious death rocker told him it was cool, and he understood. He told Jack he could stay as long as he needed, or until they have a rush and needed the table.

 

Jack thanked the guy and returned to reading.  “The man’s generousity definitly conflicted with the bloody sea creatures and deformed mutants he had tattooed on his arms,” though Jack.

 

Ten minutes later another person, much older and probably the owner, came up to Jack asking the same question, but in a much more forceful irritated and rude manner.  Jack told him the same story, and the man asked him to leave.  Jack told him the other guy told him it was cool.  The man asked to be excused for a second.

 

In the back room he could hear them screaming and shouting.

 

“ITS NOT YOUR FUCKING RESTAURANT ITS MINE.  YOU GOT IT?” the boss screamed.

 

“FUCK YOU,” screamed the tattooed employee.  He continued knowing he was definitely fired after that outburst.  “HE’S JUST A BUM TRYING TO STAY OUT OF THE RAIN.  WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO THROW HIM OUT ON THE STREETS?”

 

“YES!” screamed the owner back, soon following it up with a yelp of pain, a gurgling of blood, and a crash which was then followed by benign yelps of, “PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD JUST GET THE HELL OUT!”

 

Jack soon saw the employee storm out and throw his apron on to the counter.  He put on his leather jacket and walked out into the rain.  Jack followed after him.

 

“THANKS.” Jack cried out sincerely.

 

The tattooed death rocker had let his hair down since leaving, revealing curly untamed Tarzan locks. His combat boots were stained with paint, and like the rest of his clothes they were black.  He puffed away at his cigarette under a shoddy umbrella as he turned to face Jack.

 

“No problem!” he yelled over the traffic and wind.  “Don’t trip, it ain’t your fault, this was just a long time coming.”

 

After a brief pause the man made Jack an offer he couldn’t refuse. “You wanna come smoke some pot!”

 

Jack jumped on the opportunity and followed the man up four blocks to a townhouse that reeked of pale ales and pot.  When Jack stepped through the door it was like being back in Santa Monica, only with one other person in the house.

 

“I’m Jack by the way.” Jack said as they stepped through the door.

 

“Nancy, and if you make a joke about that I’m going to punch you in your crotch.”  He replied soon following it with a vibrant smile and chuckle.

 

“It’s cool,” said Jack, “I’ve been to the pen so I’ve heard weirder names. Trust me.”

 

“Oh,” he said following it with another chuckle, “No shit?  Well, whatever dude.  We’ve all had a run in with the law.  Do want a beer?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Nancy retreated and soon returned with two large pale ales.  “Yeah a couple of these fuckers, and they’ll put me in my place, and its a good place.”

 

They both chuckled and drank their beer, as they talked Nancy packed and lit a bowl in his bong.

 

Jack did think it was odd that a man with bloody skeleton tattoos and psychedelic sleeves would go by the name Nancy.  But Jack was fairly open minded for your self educated ex con. The guy could be named Pinky Mcgee and Jack wouldn’t have cared.

Nancy was different. He had the look of a death metal Marilyn Manson worshiper but the air of a friendly and good natured person.

 

Then the conversation somehow shifted to Charles Manson,  apparently although he thought he was a horrible person, Nancy admitted that Manson’s writing Helter Skelter was in some aspects true and should be given credit where credit was due.  “I mean he was right about a lot of shit, I mean, yeah, he’s responsible for killing innocent people and almost killing a president, but he was right about shit, like how everything is going to have to be destroyed before it can be rebuilt.”

 

Jack didn’t quite agree with what Nancy was saying, but he consented to give Helter Skelter a read.  He was slightly irritated over how he didn’t agree with what Nancy said about Manson, but Jack couldn’t think of anything to counter or prove him wrong.  He knew he was wrong but he could not figure out how to explain why, as with almost any other intellectual debate Jack had ever had remote involvement in.

 

After Jack was drunk on pale ale and high on Nancy’s home grown, Jack pardoned himself and said he did not want to be a mooch and consented to leave.  Nancy assured him it was no problem, and he extended an offer of his couch for a couple of nights. “This storm is supposed to last half the week, I couldn’t just turn someone out into this weather, even if I knew them or not.  I mean I trust you.  You’re not like a baby fucker or creeper,or anything like that right?”  Nancy followed it with his usual chuckle to reassure Jack that he wasn’t being serious, and it was just his twisted sense of humor.

 

Jack appreciated it. Jack had developed a twisted sense of humor since prison, and he was glad someone else had one two.  Jack had to admit, Nancy was brutal at times, but it was funny none the less.

 

Jack accepted and slept on the couch, both men had passed out into comas by seven, and had awoken by nine.  Jack arose to Nancy stewing a big can of baked beans over his stove.

 

“Just in time,” said Nancy, grab a plate and a coffee, and there’s some bread on the table.

 

Jack sat down and helped himself to a slice of the white bread on the table and put another on his plate. He then sat down as Nancy poured two big scoops onto both of the plates.  They ate quietly as the storm outside raged.

 

“I appreciate you taking me in dude,” said Jack after they had finished their beans and started nursing the coffee.  “I mean most people are less than open to..”

 

Nancy interrupted him with his palm and a shake of his head, “Don’t worry about it dude.  When all you’re trying to do is live your life, you shouldn’t be fucked just for that.  It’s super messed up that I actually had to fight my boss over shit like keeping someone from catching pneumonia or some shit like that.  I mean… what was I supposed to do be a dick and kick you out into the storm?”  He answered his own question with another chuckle.  “Hell no.”

 

Jack nodded in complete agreement.  After the meal they washed it down with some more pale ales and bong rips. Then Nancy put on a copy of the Big Lewbowski. Jack had never seen it before and loved it.  He loved John Goodman’s character, and knew he was going to quote him more than once.  “YOU’RE ENTERING A WORLD OF PAIN!”

 

“Classic,” thought Jack.

 

The two stayed up for a few more hours watching basic network shows as Nancy made fun of each sitcom and commercial.

 

“What moron would need that!”

 

“Isn’t it funny that someone can be as much of dick like Charlie Sheen, and they get ridiculously paid just for acting to a bad laugh track?”

 

“Why the fuck did Jim Belushi’s brother get a show again?”

 

All of which were followed by Nancy’s usual chuckle and smile.  All of which Jack agreed with as well and thought were funny.

Eventually Nancy couldn’t help but ask.  “So what happened to your palm there,” he took the voice of a crotchety old mining prospector “Ol buddy.”

 

Jack made up some story about being caught in the middle of some gang crossfire and was too poor to get health insurance.

 

Nancy sympathized, and said he didn’t have insurance either.

 

As the hours of the night passed, Nancy retreated back to bed, and Jack was left awake in the weed filled living room, furnished with an old leather couch and milk crates.  He sat on the couch until the start of dawn with his nose in a copy of Ivanhoe and Macbeth.

 

Jack was starting to think that Shakespeare was his favorite.

 

He slept for a few hours.  He was awoken once again to the sound of sizzling beans and bubbling coffee.  The rain still pounded outside, so Jack and his new friend were stranded for another day.  It consisted of downing pale ales and of Nancy giving an estate lecture on Rembrandt and Marcel Duchamp.  It also consisted of Nancy’s explanations of why he hated Aretha Franklin and Chevy Chase. Jack defended them, not entirely sure why seeing how he wasn’t a die hard fan of either, but he didn’t dislike them.

 

They mixed their pale ales and conversations with more bad television and Weed.

 

“I just thought of something,” said Jack. “That Helter Skelter book, you got a copy around here?”

 

“Oh yeah.” said Nancy as he finished his sixth beer.

 

“I don’t suppose you got a copy I could borrow, at least for my time here?” Jack asked, figuring he could probably read through the thing in a night or two.

 

But Nancy ecstatically responded, “Actually I got an extra you can have.”

 

Before Jack could even officially accept Nancy had already gone back to his room and reemerged with a little black book with red letters and handed it to Jack.

 

“Thanks,” Jack said nervously.

 

Jack was interested in the perspective of another convict, but he did have the feeling it wouldn’t be as insightful as Hamlet, or Moby Dick.

 

“No problem,” replied Nancy, happy to share something he enjoyed with someone else who wasn’t scorning him, or thinking he was insane for reading a book by Charles Manson.  Jack could appreciate Nancy’s enthusiasm, he could tell other people didn’t.

 

“Yeah, my mom gave me a copy for my birthday last year, but I already had a copy so you can have this one,” continued Nancy as he swung back more beer stumbling back into his seat and returning his attention to the rerun of Two and a Half Men.  Then he made a smart ass comment about a tampon commercial.

 

“They should have Carlie Sheen do one of those ads, he’d be perfect especially if they put them in during his show. Think about it.”

 

Jack chuckled as he took another bong rip, grateful to finally be sharing someone’s company again.

FACT: Bill Cosby Is A Rapist. (a short dialogue)

Bill Cosby is an arrogant rapist, the time has come to accept the fact.

“But James, we got to give people the benefit of the doubt.”

What about the 35 women, where is their benefit of the doubt?

“Well, how come they waited so long to tell this story?”

Because they knew schmucks like you would have a worse reaction than this twenty to thirty years ago. Also, the fact you even say that is proof you’re ignorant of the whole problem and of what rape actually does to a human’s psyche.

“Well, where is the proof?”

Again, 35 women. If that’s not proof enough for you, you’re an idiot.

“They probably just want his money.”

Most of these women are former industry professionals or models, people who have made very impressive livings on their own who in no way need the money. Plus only a fool would think that Cosby’s money would get them a settlement that would be big enough to satisfy 35 people. A settlement divided between 35 people would be nothing and they know it.

“But what about…”

Go fuck yourself, I’m done with this conversation. Start talking about something else or I will forget I have the word peace tattooed on my wrist and I will punch you as hard as I can in the face.

“Okay, okay.” Ponders for a moment, “You going watch that new Woody Allen show on..”

Punches him as hard as I can in the face then I walk away feeling satisfied.

The Vicar

It was a normal, peaceful day on the bustling streets of London. Well, perhaps peaceful is the wrong word. There really is no such thing as a “peaceful” day in London, especially during the tourist seasons. Baker street was always filled with the literary obsessives dying to find Sherlock Holmes’ address or the Karl Marx cafe at the British Museum. Some of them make their way to Fleet street and find the pub where Dickens drank and there you will also find the “alternative” kids from around the world, wearing Jack Skellington beanies looking for where the real Sweeney Todd’s barbershop used to be.

It was just a few blocks down from here, on Fleet Street, where it happened.

People were having a normal “peaceful” London day. The streets packed with barristers on their way to or from offices. Tourists were clogging the streets, not catching on that they were walking at a slow and annoying pace. Couples and families in and out of shops and restaurants. Old men hanging out in front of cafes or in the pubs. It was a normal summer day on this little stretch of Fleet street.

On this little stretch of Fleet Street there was a man who worked in a small shop. A little convenience market on the corner across from the bank. The man’s name was Trevor. Trevor thought this would be a normal day of selling tourists snack foods and tall cans of beer to the local beggars and soccer junkies. He was just unlocking the door, propping it open outside with the cement block his boss stole from a construction site to use as a door stop. Just as he propped the weight and was ready to welcome the day’s customers, that was when he heard the screams of the boy.

The boy cut around the corner, faster than anything Trevor had ever seen. The boy could be no older than 15, and the tone of his screams indicated this year, let alone this day, would be his last. What Trevor saw speed by him was less of a 15 year old screaming for help, but was rather more of a dying man screaming a warning with his final breath. The boy was running with an awkward stumble, a sway from side to side as if he were drunk, but he still ran. He ran despite the depth of his wound.

What Trevor saw was a 15 year old boy who had been shot, who was now cradling his stomach trying to clench the horrifically painful wound. The screams continued as he passed Trevor and tried to carrie his warning down the busy street.

“THE VICAR!” He was shouting, “THE VICAR.”

Trevor looked at him in confusion, shock, and terror as the hobbled sprinter carried on down the street. He separated the crowds on the side walk like Moses parting the waves as people leapt to the sides in shock, some of them screaming at the sight of the blood. “THE VICAR.” He kept shouting, “THE VICAR.”

Finally in a moment of instant delirium, he collapsed, face first on the pavement. His screams were no more, but they would forever echo inside the minds of everyone who was on that street that day, and lived.

All of this happened in a matter of 5-6 seconds. What happened next was even faster, for as Trevor turned to go into the store and call for help, he was met with what the boy was screaming about.

As Trevor turned, he was met with what looked like a young vicar, no older than 25 or even 23. The pale of his skin was accentuated by the red and brown blotches on his nose and cheeks where he had picked at the skin. The pale skin and crusty blotches were only magnified as they contrasted with the pure darkness that was his cloak and collar. Thisy vicar was also holding a large automatic rifle, that blasted into Trevor’s stomach and chest, and tore into his face.

He had no time to react, no time to even process everything that had just happened. All that remained of Trevor now was the abstract portrait of blood and brains on the glass of the shop door, and the gushing slump that was once Trevor laying on the ground with it’s remains of a head propped up against the bottom of the door.

The Vicar stepped over Trevor, ignoring the screams of the neighborhood when they saw who was responsible for all of this. People scattered and fled in several directions all across the pavement, some of them getting trampled in the process or flung out into traffic in their panic and getting hit by cars.

The Vicar began pulling the trigger again, striking the backs of heads and torsos of people in the crowd, young and old alike. He fired into the road killing drivers and causing a crash that led to a four car wreck blocking the entire street.

Some of the people hit with his bullets included a little girl, a little boy, two grandmas, a secretary to a PM, another vicar, and just anyone sitting outside who wasn’t quick enough to react to all of this because of the shock.

Blood spattered on the pavement and onto strangers faces and clothes. The screams made any siren inaudible, but they were there. As the Vicar pointed the gun to the opposite side of the street, he hit a mid aged couple visiting from Fresno, and a family of four from Liverpool, the youngest of whom was 2 years old. He didn’t hear the sirens or screeching breaks, he didn’t here them screams of, “DROP YOUR WEAPON!” And he didn’t hear the bullet that landed in the back of his head that ended it all.

The investigation found that he was not a vicar at all. He was a drop out from Liverpool with a history of drug and mental health problems. How he got a gun, they still didn’t know. Why he wasn’t in the proper facilities, his family counldn’t say. All that remained to do now was to fix the damage that had been done.

All that could be done now was to fix the damage that had been done.

Gramercy, The Journey of Jack Lewis. Chapter 9.

Chapter 9  Don’t Dance With Molly

Jack was in an awkward spot.  He spent the next day trying to find this girl and her sorority.  He walked every path and every walkway of every street and of every-which way by, to , and through the school.  He saw her nowhere.  

He found the closest free clinic.  After a four hour wait, he saw a doctor and he found out that nothing was wrong.  He was relieved.  Jack decided to get the hell out of Eugene.

So Jack left the city where it was quite possible that the mother of his child was off binge drinking and enjoying menage a tuas.  

Jack was glad to be out of this town more than he was to be out of Sacramento or Boise, at least there he didn’t have a possible love child.

He packed and got out of there by checkout time and was back on a road in the middle of a green nowhere in a matter of hours.

Three days later he ended up in Portland.

He found a hostel and paid for a few nights.  His cash wad was getting progressively thinner and Jack resolved to get some money soon.

He thought about stealing some cash, but decided against it.  He was already on the run   and had crossed countless state lines.  He chuckled to himself and thought how it was the fact he was a fugitive from the law that was making him more law abiding.

The next day he wandered onto some street called Hawthorne which was just a block from the hostel.  The street was full of college hipsters, punks, hippies, and nerd punk hippie rockers, Jack decided.  He looked for any potential cash opportunity.  He eventually stumbled on one.

Apparently Portland has a huge problem with bank robberies.  There was a bank on Hawthorne that got robbed as he walked past.  The men ran out and jumped into a car only to have the paint bomb go off.  Except on the bag they didn’t manage to close which had a huge trail of twenties falling out of it.  The cops were so busy busting the guys in the car, they didn’t even notice the homeless hippie sweeping up the cash until both the cash and the homeless hippie were long gone.

Jack had made another thousand and couldn’t believe his luck.  He then wondered if this made him an accessory to robbery or if this counted as tampering with a crime scene.  Actually it was both, with the process of “staking the charges” Jack could be charged for both.

Jack didn’t know and didn’t care.  Jack was just glad that he didn’t have to worry about money for a while and he was glad to now have this time to read.  So after he went back to get his books he settled in a coffee shop with a large black coffee while reading his Shakespeare and Ivanhoe.

He didn’t like Ivanhoe as much as the others but he liked how it was like reading a Shakespeare play in the form of a novel.  It was different, and Jack liked that.

Jack walked back to his hostel.here he found he would be sharing the bunk with a hippie named Toasty.  They shook hands, Jack was polite but immediately decided he didn’t like the guy.  That changed when the guy asked the question, “You wanna do some Molly shots.”

Jack asked what that was and the guy told him, “Pure Ecstasy.”

Jack had heard plenty about Ecstasy, and had been with tons of people when they did it, especially back in 2005 when hyphy was blowing up in California.  He had never taken it himself though.  Out of curiosity he took two shots of Molly and water.

After an hour of impatient waiting, Jack started feeling better than he ever had before in his life.  He felt so ecstatic and happy.  As if he was climaxing at a nonstop rate.  He felt alone in his hostel.  He wanted to get out and be around people, and listen to music.  Jack hadn’t wanted to listen to music more than at this moment in his entire life.

He wandered the town in the dead of night, enjoying every sight he saw, even the people he saw passing by.  Jack loved it, he felt energized to an endless point, and he couldn’t understand it, but he loved everyone.  He felt like his life time of indifference has been a mistake.  He actually loved these people walking by him, and he just smiled and gave an emphatic hello.  Eventually he came across a house party full of college students, who were blasting good music.  Jack walked in as Superstition just ended, and Thriller just got started on the speakers.  Jack immediately walked in, not having to pay anything, and stayed on the dance floor until the cops came.

When Jack returned to the hostel, he rubbed the sheets like they were the last piece of cloth on earth, loving their texture, and wishing he had Ann with him right now, and Alice and Fiona too.

Jack didn’t feel half as happy the next afternoon, when he awoke to what felt like the flu and a hangover combined.

Still, Jack felt he had to take this in with the ecstatic joy he felt last night.  It was worth the trade off, and Jack was glad he was feeling something.

Jack resolved to get more Molly from the guy, but by the time Jack woke he was gone.

Jack thought it was for the best.  

He soon changed his mind about Molly as he felt like shit for almost half the week,  and after the woman running the hostel regaled him with all of the retarded things he said like apologizing for dropping his own cigarette.  After the woman was done laughing in Jack’s face about that night and Jack stormed off to her laughter he simply resolved, “Never again, it’s not worth it.”

Jack soon forgot about the Molly, recovered his state of indifference and recovered from his cluster fuck morning after disease.

The next day Jack felt much better, and felt ready to conquer the word.  However,  instead he resolved just to find a spot to read some more.

His plans changed when he saw a white windowless van parked across the street.

Jack got the fuck out of there with all of his bags.

The van eventually faded into nothing, and he was safe, but still scared stiff.

“The fuckers are on my tale.” He thought.

He continued to wander the city in paranoia and eventually settled on stopping at a bar to get a drink to calm his nerves.  He drank his beer while constantly peeping over his shoulder to make sure no under-covers followed him, and to make sure the van wasn’t waiting outside with a  swat team to beat him into submission, drag him back to Leavenworth and keep him there the rest of his life.

The van wasn’t an undercover cop. What was inside was a man raping his girlfriend at gunpoint.  Jack was so paranoid he didn’t even try to check somehow.

Jack felt ashamed, as if this desperation of his was pathetic, but sadly necessary.  It was run away from strange white vans, or be on your guard 24/7 surrounded by iron and concrete.  Jack knew he had made a few mistakes, but he also knew he didn’t deserve twenty five years to the rest of his life just for following instinct.  He didn’t deserve that kind of a life.

Hell, he started to realize he didn’t need the kind of a life had now, but he decided he would rather be running from the law instead of in its grasp.  At least when you’re on the run, you get the pleasure of outsmarting the law.

In its grasp, the law reminds you every single day you could never be smart enough to out run it, never strong enough.

Jack felt that by walking casually out of Lampoc he had been strong enough, and indeed he had.

He had no idea how pissed Judge Bachman was when he found out one of his convicts had escaped.  He prayed when that they brought him back, they brought the escapee back to him in his court, but when he found out it was Jack Lewis, he only remembered that cold lack of emotion, and he couldn’t help but tremble just a little.

If he had seen Jack now, in a state of drunken paranoia, he would have had his ego restored.  Jack was lucky he was only having a panic attack.

Eventually he was drunk enough to forget about it all, and stumbled out onto the street.

When Jack woke up the next morning he was in the middle of some intercity park, his bags were spread out and emptied on the grass next to him.  All his food and all his money was gone.  They only left him his clothes and his books.

Jack tried to figure out what time he passed out, and he was glad his books were still okay.  He simply repacked his books, grabbed his now empty bags and started looking for a place where he could get some food.