::10:18:07::

::: Surfs :::

After being hounded, harangued and nearly harpooned by a horde of undercover agents wearing herringbone jackets and ray-ban sunglasses, I took a chance and leaped through someone else's memories where everything reeked of deja vu.... After tumbling through a torrid stream of consciousness, I hit the ground with a jolt that forced my memory banks to recover it's own past and beat it across the dank urban decay, heading for the coast before the assholes on my tail, an enforcement arm of the dark and demonic systems control center, a neophyte disorganization that ran thing from a mother board... could rearrange my program. These goons were a uniquely nasty bunch of virile vermin that prowled the circuits after dark eliminating anything in their path. These sick spineless sons of b*tches loved the thrill of a clean and were experts at erasing any thing without leaving a clue. Their conception of perfection was furthered by the acquisition of names and addresses of anyone who had been labeled out of order. They would sneak up behind poor unsuspecting personality types, torment them with perverted ideas and eventually freeze their hard drive. Since I was the last of a long line of iconoclasts I was at the top of their list of undesirables. I had spent most of my life working under the big top as a circus clown and never paid much attention to politics. But times had changed and things were getting sick. I had to take a stand and attempt to strip their grip on abstract impressionism. My ploy was to encourage free and creative thought though a richly calculated method of osmosis. If that didn't work I would go to plan B, which was my ace in my hole. I would call upon my faithful legion of anti viral eating software and lead them into the cockled bowels of all the primary programs worldwide and watch as my allies ate them from the outside in. My first act of digression was sending a message to the masses in the guise of a beautifully crafted Freudian slip spelling my mother's maiden backwards, calling on her in quotations to rise up join the foray and overthrow these self serving pathetic prophets of profound pointlessness. Unfortunately, the second I punched out the last letter of the note, a corporate commando, code named Mr. Magoo... Who bared no resemblance to anything myopic expect for a double -breasted motorized trench coat zeroed in on my line analyzed my meaning and instantly called an emergency meeting with the heads and tails of all the operating systems in use, each and every one having overt connections to covert organizations. Magoo stretched his long serpentine tongue out of his mouth slid it up his right cheek, clearing an implanted single tobacco stained eyelid. Then with a barely audible hiss he began reciting the table of contents of Mein Kampf causing the entire room to stand turn left and extend one arm in the air turning into an army of goose stepping salivating swastika wearing slobs, waiting for the order to locate, interrogate, berate and as painfully as possible saturate me. The slobs were good at being bad, but not as bad as I was good so as they got close I reached into my back pocket, removed an inflatable keyboard tapped the words good night Irene and took off leaving them screaming about racial superiority. I covered my back by injecting a multi colored remote control channel changing serum into my Internet navigating system. I instantly took off speeding across a seascape filled with images of sympathetic souls and surveyed the synthetically shaped notes and phrases offered in high regard from the pens of poets and musician who long ago were outlawed by the powers that be.
I continued tripping until the night before Christmas just before dawn as the distant beat of a thousand doorways dancing in the corridors of my mind. When I stopped for some air I met a pair of legs that went on forever. It was love at first sight and as I placed myself at the crack of her dawn, a unit of sleeveless self assured assholes carrying weapons of mass destruction and stinking of terminal fallout crashed my affair riding aqua marine motor scooters, singing Copacabana, a song written and originally sung by Barry Manilow, and used by the evil empire to cause irreparable damage to the auditory and anal canals of men and women alike. Luckily my parents had me inoculated at birth against these types of damaging sounds. But my lovely pair of legs weren't so lucky. They painted a sign on her crack that read "Closed until further notice." Now that really pissed me off, so I started throwing lightening fast verbal jabs. It was me against too many of them, but that was how I liked to danced. We waged war until well after the new moon and I was really kicking some ass, but suddenly I ran out of words and was swallowed up by their mumblings. Bound and gagged, I was dragged to the corporate headquarters on a side street just off the Castro, a predominantly gay district that once had been San Francisco, frequented by oversized drag queens and pencil thin prima donnas crossed dressed in soft soled shoes, black strapless panties and see-thru bras taken right off the pages of an antique Victoria Secret catalogue that was distributed during a midnight sortie masterminded by a militant faction of the same sex defense league.
"Arrivederci Roma' the sergeant sang as his troops heaved me sideways through a E-mail slot, where I was immediately accosted by an angry group of Afro-American sadists, all carrying autographed photos of O.J. Simpson taken during his happier days. The dark denizens, pulled by their pet "pitbulls" circled me on their skateboards, screaming ebonics and doing their best to damage my video receivers by playing batter -up on my head with lead filled sawed off chop sticks discovered in the burned out basement of Madam Wong's, a sleazy joint on a sleazy street, somewhere in Chinatown where the fog infected everything. Finally tired of the noise and subterfuge they ceased the beating then wrapped me in aluminum foil and shoved me into an obsolete Otis elevator like I was some freak of nature. Inside the Otis, the soldiers donned streamlined condoms and mimed salvation, when somebody lit a cigar and whispered in a southern drawl that had Truman Capote written all over it. Since I hadn't indulged in any of Tru's books and didn't want to seem trite, I tried keeping my mouth shut. But with the metallic car moving at such a speed that made everything appear subterranean, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I began singing "All You Need is Love" to needle them. Unfortunately these idiots hadn't even heard of the Beatles. When they finally realized I was immune to harm on the physical plane, traveled they attempted to blow my hard drive.
Finally the car screeched to a halt and as blood poured from my palms, I was presented, prostrated and spread -eagled, to the head corporate honcho who sat in Lotus position atop a burning cross wearing a white hooded light made of hand woven silk. He spoke in tongues. I responded in dangling participles. The conversation was going nowhere. The hooded honcho threw a temper tantrum across the room.
"Hang him out to dry." He ordered his two main muscle bound morons aptly named Oak and Igor. The apes carried me up to the roof like I was an abstract concept and proceeded to hang me upside down from a flagpole. The fact that I was an aerial surrealist held no weight at this height, so as I swayed high above the city with all my systems on alert, I suddenly shivered from the stories my ancestors had written in my genes. I watched in horror as my family tree withered and dropped out of sight due to constant inhalation of toxic ideas. A river of tears poured from my eyes, turned into a nightmare and smashed the streets below without mercy causing flash floods to slap across the Golden Gate Bridge pushing north through Marin County ending up submerging the execution room at San Quentin where a group of rainbow- makers had gathered outside in the cold night to protest death, warming their feet on heated flashbacks flaming from film cans left over from a re-run of "Apocalypse Now", simultaneously raising their neon sighs of flickering hope and singing songs of redemption. When the wave hit, each protestor pulled out a miniature pair of yellow lifelines and got a well-deserved reprieve. The man strapped to the chair wasn't so fortunate. As his victim's twin brother laughed, the killer's lungs swelled with liquefied matter and he drowned because never having taken a swimming lesson in his rotten life, he was unable to tread water.
Suddenly I awoke from this dream with a merciless headache punching holes thorough my sockets, brought on by too many memories. Lifted by my bird and carried across the light on a stretcher I had stashed under the bed, we went outside, ignited my cobra and headed toward the sunset. On and on, we dabbled flying around the speed of light and after hitting some cross-town traffic pulled into a parking lot filled with used ideas. We slipped through a crack in time took the escalator down, found the sales rack and went on a shopping spree. Buying more than we could stand and assisted by the wind, we checked out at a counter where a famous black movie star stood smiling through a mouthful of perfectly manicured teeth. She said she knew me from before, was in town minting money and offered me some. I gave her my bank account number and prayed she would whet my appetite. But since we were in Hollywood were everyone was full of sh*t, the chances of rain were far less than zero.

Written by: ~ L. Elliot Mintz