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I’d soon shoot the surveillance gang with the self-correcting Laser sight on my sniper


rifle. Little der Fuehrers always began the disruptions; those loud cracks on my walls, all


made by my opponents, mind rapers. Trust me on this. Paranoia is so passé, so boring.


To undermine the surveillance gang’s power, I sang. Due to the accelerated rate of


Darwinian adoption, my memory had rapidly improved. I sang Verdi arias as I made


dinner, vacuumed apartment, relaxed in rocking chair, changed bed sheets, rode the


stationary bicycle, had sex with girlfriends, masturbated, washed dishes, cooked, shat,


pissed. My vocal range was as endless as the criminals’ tactics to run me out of town.


What brought the surveillance on? Russell must’ve snitched me out. I might’ve told


him too much. Now his allegiance swung to the opposition. His role: park outside my


house and talk on the smartphone. He knew I sat looking out the window, searching for


loopholes, perforations in the surveillance keepers’ schemes. Paranoia played no part


because I’m reacting to something as real as the words you now read.


Erecting a wall of separation between them and me, I steeped my cognitive activity


in the tiny fonts of box scores, scrutinizing them so ardently, focused and deep, that


those yappers couldn’t breach my mental razor-wired barrier. That included baseball,


basketball, football, and hockey. Baseball had sixteen categories for each player. I traced


my finger across players’ stats, turning numbers and percentages into their real-time


performances, visualizing through numbers their on-field reality. This blocked out the


pursuers (surveillers) for a long time, longer if I wanted to scrutinize more games.


Seasonal, like migrant workers (also under surveillance and harassed), I segued to the


other three sports.


I bought Plan B, a skateboard with pop and durability, a high-end brand. Three


skateboarders pop and scraped their boards’ end, grinding their boards’ backs on my


cement driveway. I grabbed the AR15 and was about to sacrifice those three boarders to


skateboard heaven where champion Australian skater Shane Cross was. His death


occurred when a motorcycle hit and killed him. Wouldn’t it be great if motorcyclists and


skateboarders declared war on one another? Motorcyclists terrorized me, pipes louder


than black metal bands, revving their machines daily in front of my house in the name


of surveillance.


I sat on a kitchen chair and placed Plan B at my feet horizontally, moving swiftly side


to side, popped some Methedrine and sipped beer, deciding what curse I could lay on


those skaters. Working myself into a trance, the faces of the three skaters appeared before


me, bloodied, gashed, sliced, slashed, and obviously dead. I saw the them in the


gutter; I had spayed their noise. Their threat vanquished was a morale boost for me.


Surveillance operators’ digital entry into my house saw fierce conviction in my eyes


and backed off. My psychosis/AR 15 combo out maneuvered them, at least for now.


Stopping them from attacking my castle, my drawbridges often down: on the toilet or


pissing, cooking, reading, going to sleep, morning shower and dressing. I bought a


wireless headset. Sometimes singing Verdi proved useless. The transition now smooth, I


slept on my back wearing the headset.


After morning ablutions, I turned on the computer, and listened to whatever struck my


fancy on Spotify. Record producer Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound decades ago used a


great echo chamber. This new headset destroyed my echoic memory, that ability to


recapture sound immediately after hearing it. The headset silenced them. Other


times, exercising twenty minutes on the stationary bicycle, wearing the headset I heard


nothing but very, very fast workout beats. Whatever worked, I used. I’m pragmatic and


don’t indulge in things mystical. In fact, paranoia had a peculiar occult flavor, so I


trashed it along with the skaters’ din.


Next day, the surveillance yappers spoke to me. Yes, voices. Even if they said, “Happy


Birthday, Evan,” their audio-phobia bombarded my walls with hateful words. It swept


through my castle’s walls. Medieval fortresses hadn’t enough stone to increase


protection. Either did this house. Don’t I deserve good voices? Shut your yap traps, I’d


said loud and clear uncountable times.


“OR ELSE,” I said.





BIO:  I like slow baseball games, red beans and quinoa, nightmares, fast flowing rivers,

Ravi Shankar, death metal, Tom Waits, wet mornings, nostalgia, rooming houses,

cold nights, docks, The Moby Dick Cosmic Ocean, lists, mania, and dry wines.



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