Episode 65: Tuesday – Jackson

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 65

It was the closest thing that Jackson had experienced to a dream since he was a child when he’d stopped dreaming soon after his mother’s death. He had no idea why he’d stopped, it had just happened. But it was something he took for granted. It was something that just…happened. Today though, he would write it down.

He would also write about the dream, if that’s what he could call it. It wasn’t like any of the dreams he’d had as a child, though he could barely remember those. They’d been mostly about his life around the house, times he’d spent with his mother, going into the candy store in town, the hobby store, the drive, the kitchen. As he thought about those dreams, they came back to him, but none were as strange as the one from last night.

He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what he’d dreamed. He was aware of a woman’s presence but he couldn’t define what the presence was. It was as though he was aware of himself through her eyes.

No, not her eyes. Not her eyes. Her consciousness? Her awareness?

He couldn’t picture her face but there was something about her that he knew well, almost as much as he knew himself but she was a stranger, someone he’d never met. 

Maybe it was mom? Maybe I dreamed about her?

He rushed to his laptop and started making notes, including what little he could remember of the dreams from his youth, a couple of paragraphs about a fire, the wind rushing through the trees by the house in the country, playing Snakes and Ladders with a kid he didn’t know. He did this throughout the morning, forgetting to eat or drink, absorbed in the task of remembering who he was.

***

Hunger. It was noon and he still hadn’t eaten. Angry bubbles rumbled through his intestines. His list was almost as barren as his stomach. He’d hoped that, because he wanted to remember, the memories would flood back. He’d hoped that as he remembered one thing, it would lead to another thing and then another but though that had happened a few times, for the most part, he’d had to break his life up into periods and age groups and try to remember things from those. He realized that he’d wasted most of the morning but he was OK with that.

I have a start. The rest will come in time. But now, I need to eat.

He dressed and stepped into the street where the early afternoon crowd bustled. This was the time of day when the park and surrounding area was a beehive of activity. Not long ago, it would have been the most terrifying time for him, but not now. Now, Jackson plunged into the humanity with glee. He didn’t go into the park. Instead, he turned abruptly to his left at the bottom of the steps. He had no reason to turn left. He just did it and it felt good. It felt good to not worry about the people. It felt good to not know where he was going. It felt good to be on vacation and do whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and for no particular reason.

It was cool but he wore a sweater and a thin navy blue jacket he’d found behind his couch a year earlier. He had no idea where the jacket came from or how it had gotten behind his couch. 

Another thing for the list.

The sun shone brightly and the day was crisp with the crinkle of windblown leaves. He nodded hello to people as he passed them on the sidewalk. Most of them smiled and nodded back or said hello. A few said things like “Beautiful day,” “Wonderful weather,” and “How d’ya do?” When he reached the intersection he had choices: go straight ahead, turn right and keep to the edge of the park or turn left and explore unknown territory. He turned left. Time for adventure, time to explore. 

Almost immediately, he passed a bistro with spicy aromas that flowed directly into his nostrils.

***

He loved smoked meat sandwiches. The aftertaste curled around his palate deliciously, a mixture of the meat, mustard and bread. And the pickle. He loved the pickle. 

It was beginning to warm up so he took his jacket off and slung it over his shoulder as he strolled down the street, stomach full and eager to explore. After a block or two, he was seeing fewer and fewer people and the buildings looked like they needed repairs. After three blocks, the only people he saw stood in the shadows of weathered porches and stairwells. Some of them wore hoods. Some of them stared into his eyes as he passed. He was certain he’d seen eyes peering out of curtains and between the slightly parted slats of yellowed Venetian blinds. He stopped nodding to people and decided it was time to turn around and head back toward the park. 

He turned just in time to see two hooded men step out of the shadows of a dilapidated building and stand on the sidewalk facing him, blocking his way. He could just barely make out the malevolent outlines of noses and lips, eyes boring straight into his. He stood still, feeling his stomach tighten and his pulse quicken. Color drained from his face. All the fears he’d felt throughout his life were returning to him in a tsunami of dread. He tried to say something but his voice faltered. He didn’t know what to say. He’d never been in a situation like this except in his imagination. He tried smiling, thinking that maybe they might spare him any harm if he appeared friendly.

“What the fuck are you smiling at, fuckwad?” said a deep chilling voice from one of the hoods. He wasn’t sure which. “You think we’re funny or something?”

He tried to say no, but his vocal chords and mouth were numb with fear.

“I said, you think we’re funny?” The voice louder now.

Jackson managed a weak, “No.”

“Then why you laughing at us.”

“No.” Weak, distant. He wondered if he’d acually said it.

The man on his right stepped toward him. “No what, fuckwad?” The man’s hand flashed out and slapped Jackson in the face, hard. His head snapped to the right and he saw tiny flashes of light. 

So that’s what they mean by seeing stars.

This thought fascinated him so much he didn’t feel the pain from the slap. The man’s other hand swung at his face, this time a punch that landed square on his jaw. For a second, he couldn’t see anything because the points of light exploded into a curtain of white light that bleached out the world. He felt a sensation of downward motion and pain from his knees at they struck the sidewalk. He sensed motion around him as his attacker grabbed him and the other put his hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. When his vision returned to normal, he was alone. He saw his wallet on the sidewalk to his right. He picked it up. The money was gone but it appeared that his cards and ID were still in it. He looked around. Other than eyes peering from dark windows, he was alone. He stood up slowly, legs wobbly, and made his way home.

*** 

His jaw was sore. He looked closely in the mirror. There was a bit of reddening but no bruises or swelling. No loose teeth.  A bit of a cut on his lower lip.

Not much of a puncher for a mugger.

But he’d still seen stars and was half unconscious after the blow. He looked down at his knees. Both were bruised and swollen.

Sidewalk was less forgiving than the mugger.

He wondered if he should call the police but decided against it. All they took was cash, which would be impossible to trace and his description of them would match thousands of suspects. He was certain that the people peeking through blinds and curtains would swear that they hadn’t seen a thing. All he would get out of it would be wasted time filling out reports and answering questions that would lead nowhere. 

He wasn’t going to waste a moment of his vacation time. And he wasn’t going to let this incident force him back into being a social recluse. He’d lost thirty dollars and some pride; small price to pay for being free of the prison his life had become. 

Like getting back on the horse.

He decided it was time to celebrate his first, and hopefully last, mugging by going out for dinner. 

***

It felt strange, but good, to be writing on paper with a pencil, something he hadn’t done in years. He’d forgotten the feel of control and the overall sensual experience of adjusting the slant of the paper, resting his palm in a comfortable spot, wrapping his fingers and thumb around the pencil and watching the graphite flow magically off the tip of the pencil and onto the paper to the rhythm of his thoughts. He remembered reading somewhere that Hemingway wrote his first drafts in pencil and then typed them up the next day as a way to add one more layer to the revision process.

He’d just recorded the navy blue jacket that he’d found behind his couch, something he hadn’t questioned at the time because, at the time, he wasn’t questioning anything. The rest of the list was mostly random things that he barely remembered and in most cases, guessed at. The quarters under his pillow and the missing teeth. Had he just erased the memories of losing those teeth because of the painful experience? But given the pain involved, how could he have forgotten?

He wrote a few paragraphs about the dream he’d had with himself in guises that seemed so strange, even as the stuff of dreams, especially the part where he was Jacky Carson talking to his customers. It had seemed so natural, as though it was something he’d done a thousand times. And yet, he’d just seen the place once. He made note of the woman mistaking him for the owner of the gallery. That seemed to ring some faraway alarm, but as much as he forced himself to focus in on what that was, nothing came. He documented anyway and decided that he would include his doubts and any other thoughts he couldn’t explain on his list. He asked himself why he was making the list. After several moments of thought, it came to him: I need to define myself. 

He wasn’t sure why this was the reason, but he knew it was. 

***

It was a cool evening but not cold. In spite of being mugged earlier, he felt safe in the park. He wondered why, with such a sketchy neighborhood only a few blocks away, there were never any muggings in the park, especially with the number of people who frequented the place at night. Maybe that was it…the number of people. He couldn’t remember ever having seen police patrols in the daytime or nighttime. He’d seen patrol cars drive by but their presence was scarce and non-threatening. They just drove by and never had to stop for anything except to get food or coffee from one of the bistros or restaurants. It was like the neighborhood around the park was separated from the rest of the world. 

Like me.

I’ve been a part of the world but not part of the world all my life. I’ve been the moth in the cocoon. But not anymore. I’m out and I’m part of the world. I’ve been mugged. I have a story to tell. But who do I tell it to? And do I really want to tell that story? And do I really want to create courses out of the experiences of old people? Is there something else I can be doing? Is there anything else I want to do? 

He felt a sudden sense of excitement. His mind reeled with new possibilities. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into the online learning business. He was just in it, like he’d fallen from someplace into something he was good at.

But am I really happy with it?

He wondered if he’d ever felt any deep sense of joy with his work, if he’d ever been excited rather than just satisfied at having finished something to the satisfaction of his clients. 

Maybe I needed a punch in the head to rattle things up enough to honestly look at what I’m doing. The money’s good. The work is always in demand. I have a reliable client base. But I make my living off other people’s experience.

 The excitement grew. His mind seemed to spin faster with each thought. He felt a sense of urgency at the pit of his stomach as his thoughts opened to the potential of starting all over with a new life and a new career. 

OK, Jackson, what skills do you have that you can transfer to something else? You’re a great communicator. Your writing skills are above average. No, they’re exceptional. You’re a good listener. You can take large bodies of complex information and pare them down to the essential information and simplify it so that just about anyone can understand it. And learn from it. You’re a brilliant educator. You’re a hard worker. You know how to negotiate. You’re an excellent judge of character. People like you. People enjoy working with you. You’re intelligent. 

His mouth curled into a smile just as an elderly man in jogging gear walked past him and, seeing the smile, smiled back as though the smile were meant for him. He smiled wider and said hello.

“Beautiful evening,” said the man. 

“Yes,” said Jackson, “a beautiful evening and a beautiful day.”

He looked at his watch. It was getting close to the time. He turned toward home, his mind swimming with possibilities. 

 

 

Episode 64: Monday – Jack

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 64

The pencil wouldn’t move. Images of people he didn’t know and yet seemed familiar bulged out of the peripheries of his awareness. His hand was stuck over the panel. He pushed the images out of his mind until it was blank.

Where do go now? He couldn’t visualize their faces: The Unseen. He chuckled to himself.

Guess they are unseen. Panther? Bobcat? All of you. Where are you? What are you thinking? What’s the Tyranny up to now? 

Nothing came. No images. No faces. No tree house. Nothing. He tried doodling…just letting the pencil glide across the paper. This had worked in the past, engaging the right side of his brain in some kind of relaxing activity, nothing planned, just the creation of shapes without direction or meaning. It eased his mind and put him into an open state of thought where anything and everything could happen.

He doodled for an hour. Nothing. He was empty. 

Maybe I just need a break. 

He thought about this for a moment. He’d been working on his strip every day for years. He’d been hiding from the world for years, fearing the world. For how many years? But now he had a woman in his life. 

I have a woman in my life.

He gave up on the doodling and ate a sandwich as he looked out the window at the park.

Maybe a long walk in the park to clear my head and figure out what’s going on. 

***

Scattered clouds enclosed the park in shadows and then opened into full sunlight and back to shadows. A cool breeze brushed against his face and disappeared when the clouds moved unwrapped the sun. 

He walked through the park and around the park without clearly seeing anything or anyone. Everything around him hazed behind his curtain of thought. He wasn’t sure how long he’d walked but his stomach started clamoring and it occurred to him that there would be an email from Valerie waiting for him at home. 

***

His heart raced as he read. 

Arial 88

She went on for several more pages, just like she used to before they actually started seeing each other. It wasn’t until he started reading that he realized that he missed her long rambling emails and he missed writing back to her with memories, theories, feelings, hopes and dreams and things he just made up, things that popped into his head that he wanted to say to her because he didn’t want the email to end. It was like he was connected to her through it.

He spent the next hour writing back to her before getting ready to meet her at the Constant Apple. 

***

The coffee shop was exactly as he remembered it: cozy, dim lighting, curtained windows, intimate seating for about twenty. He saw her immediately, sitting at a candlelit table near the back of the room, the same place she’d been sitting when he stood her up. He couldn’t remember what it was that had spooked him that night but he felt a slash of regret. She looked so beautiful and graceful, sitting erect, posture perfect, hair tumbling over her shoulders.

How could I have been such an idiot?

“Well,” he said as he pulled back a chair to sit down, “I didn’t chicken out.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Good thing,” she said. “I’d hate having to hunt you down to shoot you.”

“You need a gun on your job?” He wavered slightly before sitting all the way down, as though he were about to change his mind and leave. 

She laughed. “Not really. I don’t do field work, just boring old desk stuff, checking out information and anomalies. Really boring stuff.”

He looked around the room. “I remember coming here.”

“Our fourth date. Pardon me…the fourth time you stood me up.”

He reached over the table and touched her hand. “I was an idiot. I’m going to blame it all on Crosby.”

“Who?”

He glanced around the room again. “This place hasn’t changed a bit. I mean, we could be sitting here that night. Everything’s the same.”

“Except we’re sitting here together this time.”

They laughed. They ordered coffee and cheesecake.

He looked at her wistfully. “I really liked reading your email and I like writing back. It’s almost like you’re there.” He looked, reflectively, at the table and then back to her eyes. “I’ve been having all these weird thoughts.”

“Like what, Jack?”

“I’m not really sure. I had a big bump and a cut on my head. Haven’t got a clue how they got there.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. “Things like this have been happening all my life and I just shrug them off.” He leaned forward. “There’s something intrinsically wrong with me and I don’t have a clue what…only that it’s kept me from being a part of the rest of the world all my life.”

The worry in Valerie’s eyes was unmistakable. She started to say something but stopped. She stared into his eyes, reached her hands across the table and held his hands. Jack had a sense that she wanted to say something but she held back. “What…what do you think?”

The waitress arrived with their coffee and cheese cake. They were quiet, smiling tensely, as she placed the contents of the tray on their table. When she left, Valerie said, “I’m not sure. I know you were into this whole conspiracy theory thing for so long and…”

“But this isn’t conspiracy stuff. It’s me. It’s things about myself that I don’t understand, things that I’ve spent an entire lifetime shrugging off, ignoring. But I can’t do it anymore.” He leaned forward. “Do you want to hear something really weird?”

He saw something in her eyes, just a brief instant and then it was gone.

Was that fear? Did I just see fear in her eyes? Why fear?

“I’ve always had this feeling that I’m not alone.” He let his words sink in before continuing. “I’ve never been able to figure out who or what the others are, only I feel their presence sometimes. So strongly. It’s as though there’s periods of time when I’m somebody else. When I’m other people. And things happen to those other people…like the bump on my head…and when I’m back to myself, I’ve forgotten what happened because the memory isn’t mine…it’s somebody else’s.” He stopped for a moment, staring intently into her eyes. “Does that make any sense?”

She was quiet for a moment. He had a sense that her eyes were searching his eyes for something. As though she were weighing the possible ways to answer his question. 

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s just that…” She shook her head slowly. “You’ve cut yourself off from the rest of the world for so long. It’s bound to have an effect on you. The characters in you strip are probably more real to you than anyone else you know and…”

“And that’s another thing. The characters in my comic…they all look alike and they all look like me. Why is that?”

Valerie smiled nervously, “Well, don’t writers write about what they know best. Maybe each of those characters represents a facet of your own personality.”

Jack thought about his a moment. “You know, Valerie…there’s something about what you just said that has a ring of truth to it. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but…”

“Maybe it’s because you have so few interactions with other people…that you interact with yourself as other people in your comic.”

After a moment, he said, “I don’t know. What you said at first, seemed…familiar, like it was close to something I knew. But I don’t think, no…interact with myself as though I’m other people? Why does that seem to make so much sense?”

“It makes the characters in your comics seem more real…like real people.”

“No. It’s more than that. It’s so much more than that.” He looked off somewhere into the room, deep in thought.

Valerie frowned.

***

She thought carefully about the things Jack had said and the things she’d said. She knew that she had to be careful. Something was happening with Jack that hadn’t happened before…if she understood what Natalie had told her correctly. 

Jack was questioning things. He was no longer accepting them and shrugging them off to some anomaly he’d always accepted. And he was starting to question the things that had nothing to do with the rest of the world, the things that were personal to him, like the bump on his head, a cut on his lip—all the things he couldn’t remember happening but had happened to him.

Natalie’s grand scheme to keep the identities of her children secret from each of them was starting to unravel and Valerie was beginning to share her concerns about the consequences. What would happen to Jack when he found out that he was one of seven people sharing the same body? How would be react to his entire life being something completely different than he thought it was?

But he’s seen into it in a way. The seven characters in his strip. And he has so many questions and suspicions. Maybe the truth would give him some kind of closure on a lifetime of doubts that he’s been conditioned to ignore.

She decided to drop by to see Natalie on the weekend.

We need to come up with a plan before all hell breaks loose. And maybe it’s already too late.

 

 

 

 

 

Episode 63: Sunday – Jackie

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 63

“Hello!”

The voice was close, right next to her ear.

“Hello! Are you awake?”

A woman’s voice. Close.

“Hello. You fell asleep on the bench.”

Faces. Her face. But faces plural. Her face…but different. And thoughts. Or memories? Her in a red dress chewing on a cigar. Her riding a bicycle and taking pictures. Her hiding in bushes and spying on a coffee shop. But not her. Not Jackie. Someone else. But her face.

A hand on her shoulder. A face taking shape. A young woman with black hair in a ponytail wearing a jogging outfit under a light black jacket. She sat down beside Jackie. “Are you alright?”

Jackie shook her head and looked at the woman. “Yes, I’m fine. I guess I fell asleep. Thanks for waking me.”

“No problem,” said the woman, smiling widely. “It’s generally safe here at night, but it’s getting cold and I was concerned that you might get hypothermia.” With that, she stood up, wished Jackie a good night and continued running.

Jackie’s mind reeled. 

What the hell am I doing in the park? At night? How did I get here?

She clearly remembered going to bed.

Sleepwalking? I got dressed and sleepwalked into the park and slept on a bench? 

She looked around, looked down, saw her clothing.

Who’s clothes am I wearing? These aren’t my clothes. Why am I wearing someone else’s clothes? 

What were all those faces? Those were me? 

She stood up quickly, too quickly, the blood-rush to her head made her dizzy and she sat back down.

What the fuck is going on? Who’s clothes am I wearing and what am I doing here? And what was that all about with the faces? Am I going fucking crazy?

She stood up, slower this time, and looked around, getting her bearings. She saw the orange light glowing through her two living room windows through the spindly branches of the trees to her right and walked slowly in the direction toward home.

***

She shook her head as she stood in front of the mirror.

How did I get into these clothes? Where did I get these clothes? Why am I wearing these clothes? And how did I get to the park? And why am I awake now? It’s still dark. It’s still night. I should be asleep.

Her thoughts went back to one of the conversations she’d had with her mother when she was a child, one of the many conversations they’d had on her condition.

“You’re not like other people. You’re very special. But you have to take certain precautions. These things are necessary.” 

They were in the kitchen. It was evening. Crickets chirped outside the windows.

“I know it’s hard for you to understand these things at your age. I know that you’ll have questions as you grow. But sometimes you have to accept things without fully understanding them.”

 The message had been so thoroughly drummed in night-after-night that she’d just accepted it, never questioned it. It was in the woodgrain of her life.

But this was beyond accepting. She looked at the cuffs of her plaid shirt. They were worn.

These were not new clothes that she’d bought somewhere. These were used clothes. Someone else’s clothes.

Where did these come from? And what was it with all those faces? So different. But me.

She heard a familiar knock on her door.

What does she want at this time of night? Why am I even awake at this time of night?

The concern in Mrs. Gilbert’s face was unmistakeable, even through the wrinkles.

“I heard you come in and I thought, my, that’s unusual for Jackie. I was wondering it there’s anything wrong.”

“No, Mrs. Gilbert, there’s no need to worry. I fell asleep on a park bench. But a woman out for a run woke me. I’m alright. I think.”

Mrs. Gilbert laughed. “Oh, I’m afraid I’m guilty on that count as well. Fell asleep in the park one night shortly after I bought this place. It’s so comfortable in the park.” She studied Jackie carefully for a moment. “But you seem somewhat distraught. Are you sure that you’re OK?” Jackie thought about this for a moment. “Mrs. Gilbert, I have a question.”

“Yes, dear.”

She opened the door completely. “Have you ever seen me in these clothes before?”

The look in Mrs. Gilbert’s eyes was unmistakable: shock.

Why would she react with shock? What does she know?

“Mrs. Gilbert? What is it? Have you seen me in these clothes before?”

It took several seconds before she replied, as though she were gathering her wits or trying to figure something out. “Honestly, Jackie, I wouldn’t be able to say for sure. The shirt looks nice on you though. Why do you ask such a strange question?”

And why did you have such a strange reaction?

She shook her head. “I…I don’t know. It’s just that…”

What does she know?

“Yes, dear?”

“Well, this is going to sound strange…but I seem to have forgotten that I even had these clothes. Isn’t that weird?”

Jackie imagined that she could hear gears of thought grinding away inside the older woman’s mind. The look in her eyes had been real. Shock.

Why shock?

Mrs. Gilbert’s expression changed from bemusement to mirth and she laughed. “Oh…I wish I had a wardrobe so large that I would forget some of the clothing I had.”

“But these clothes aren’t mine, Mrs. Gilbert. I don’t have a big wardrobe and I’ve never seen these clothes before.” She looked down at the shirt. “And I hate plaid. I would never wear it.”

Something was going on in Mrs. Gilbert’s eyes but Jackie couldn’t tell what it was. It looked like a mixture of things, so fleeting they left no impression before the next one flashed into hernirises. “I really don’t know what to say, dear.” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her massive chest. “Have you been getting enough sleep? I was reading that lack of sleep can sometimes lead to unexplainable things happening in your life…”

“No, Mrs. Gilbert. It’s not lack of sleep. I don’t know where these clothes came from.”

She gestured toward her body with both hands. “They’re just…on me.”

The two stood, facing each other for what seemed like hours before Mrs. Gilbert said, “Well, dear, the shirt does look good on you…even though you don’t like it. But I suppose I should stop bothering you now. Perhaps, you should try to get some…” She stopped dead and Jackie was certain that what she saw flashing in the woman’s eyes was panic. “Or, maybe you should change clothing and make some coffee.” Jackie’s eyes followed hers to the big windows where the first light of day was beginning to erase the night. “It looks like it’s almost time to rise.” She smiled, but there was something other than smiling in her eyes.

What is that? Helplessness?

“Well…I have some things to attend to. If you need to talk some more, just let me know.” She hurried toward the stairs.

What does she know?

***

Natalie

Natalie’s hands shook. Sitting in her armchair with her hands resting on her legs, back straight and eyes looking forward but seeing nothing, she breathed deeply, slowly. She felt her heart flutter. That was the last thing she needed.

What have I done?

It was all catching up to her, all the years of hiding the truth from her children.

But what was I supposed to do? Anything could have happened if they’d found out. And what would the rest of the world have done to them?

Manzer had told her that it might be best for them to know so that they could work together to adapt.

But they might have merged into one personality. They might have all gone crazy. They might have lived their lives being studied, under the microscope. 

I love them all. I have seven children. 

That, she knew, was the main reason for not telling them: she wanted to keep all seven of them. It was the same as if some other mother had given birth to seven babies with seven different personalities, except her babies were all in the same body.

What have I done? God, please don’t let her go to sleep now.

She had no idea what would happen if Jackie went to sleep this early. Nothing like this had happened before. She might wake up as Jackson. She might wake up as herself but with her biorhythms skewed so that she might not sleep that night. Natalie had worked hard to ensure that all seven of them adhered to a strict schedule, something that was so much a part of them that it defined who they were. For their entire lives, they’d all been in bed by midnight. For their entire lives, they’d waked up at six in the morning. For their entire lives, they’d always been home to make that deadline. None of them had ever been to a sleepover or stayed overnight in a hotel or anywhere else other than home. All the strategies and planning she’d worked out with Manzer…all of it seemed to be unraveling now.

They’re all going out on their own now. I need to talk to Manzer.

***

What could she possibly know that she would hold back from me? Jackie, you must be going crazy. It’s Mrs. Gilbert. Sweet wrinkled old Mrs. Gilbert. She has nothing to hide from you. You’re being paranoid. But why did she look that way? She seemed almost shocked. And why did she seem to panic after telling me I should get some sleep? And then change suddenly to drinking coffee? 

She went to the bedroom and opened the hidden door to her closet.

Why do I keep my clothes and other things stored in a secret closet?

She thought back to her childhood, the secret closet in the house she grew up in. This had been one of the rituals of her life. It was something she just did because she wasn’t like other people. 

And why am I not like other people?

She undressed and threw the strange clothing on the floor of the closet.

God, even the underwear isn’t mine.

She picked a pair of jeans and t-shirt and put them on.

This is crazy. Something’s seriously wrong. Either I’m going crazy or someone’s playing some kind of really bizarre joke on me. 

She went to the living room, sat down at her desk and turned on her computer. Light burst through the windows as the early morning sun broke through a thin layer of cloud. Jackie stared at dust motes in the air as her mind wandered. She thought about the hundreds, no, thousands of little things she’d forced herself to ignore through her life, so many things and so many times that it became second nature and she never questioned it. The only thing she’d ever questioned was her body. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t the body she was supposed to have. She was a woman. She’d always been a woman. The man who lost his glasses knew that without even seeing her clearly. She’d always thought like a woman, felt like a woman, wanted the things that women wanted. She’d had to accept never really being herself. 

And those faces. Me.

She thought about how she’d felt when she’d seen them. Puzzlement. But familiarity beyond the faces being hers. 

And not me. 

She noticed that her computer was on. She was certain that she’d turned it off. She was always careful about that. She pressed Control Alt Delete and entered her password. Her desktop appeared. She stared at it, not knowing what to do next. The research on sex change suddenly didn’t seem so urgent. She had no idea where she was going to go with her next play. She wasn’t even certain that she wanted to write another play. 

Maybe it’s time to try something else. A novel? Short stories? 

The scripts for all seventeen of her plays were lined up across the top of her monitor. She stared at them.

Seventeen plays. Seventeen.

It occurred to her that she didn’t care about those plays. Suddenly, they were just words that she’d mostly forgotten. What she wondered about was the theme that ran through every one of them: Humans transforming from primordial beasts into so called civilized people, but deadlier and more violent than ever. 

What’s that all about? Do I really believe that? Where did that come from?

She felt all the inconsistencies and unexplained events of her life building like a wave that threatened to swamp her sanity. The more she thought about it, the more she was awed by the power of it.

But not anymore.

She decided to put everything in her life on hold while she faced whatever it was she hadn’t faced since as long as she could remember. 

I need to find out who I am before I become who I will be. 

 

 

 

Episode 62: Saturday – Jac

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 62

Jac had expected this. He wasn’t disappointed.

Arial 86

Well, I seem to have made a few people happy. But, GavinTRipper, I think you might be coming off as a little on the harsh side.

There were dozens of comments on his book site, and no mercy. It seemed to Jac that the world was rejoicing. Not one person suggested that by killing himself and destroying his books, maybe there was hope for him at the end.

Not gonna happen, Simon. They hate you. They hated you alive and they hate you dead. Good thing you’re not me anymore.

There was something in the meaning of these words that disturbed him in some faraway mindset, like seeing a mosquito flying out the window and wondering if it had already bitten you.

But you were me. You were me since I was a child. You were me as you wrote every single word. I was the monster that you were and you are the monster that I was.

Jac realized that it was going to take some time before he fully accepted this new view on life. It would take time to completely accept that it was OK to value things, that it was OK to love things—including life—and want to hang on to them for however long he could.

Maybe I’ll get a dog.

***

Arial 87

Fuck you A. Fan. I’ll be closing down every Simon Pierce link that leads to me and Simon Pierce will be dead and way beyond your empty threats.

Asshole.

***

Increasingly, a disturbing image crossed his mind: that of a young boy cutting his wrists after cutting his pet dog’s throat and somehow it seemed all the more macabre that he even thought to kill his dog before killing himself.

Why haven’t I thought about that until now?

It was a puppy. The kid killed his puppy.

He couldn’t remember feeling anything like remorse in his entire life. He’d felt pain and loss when his mother died, but he’d never felt bad about anything he’d done himself. His view of life had always been inspired from his own experiences. Sharing that view with others through his writing was something he felt, at some level, was the right thing to do, to warn others. To help others to not feel the pain of loss.

But he wondered it that was that really what he’d been doing?

He thought about the dead boy and his dead dog. He thought about the reports of kids with emotional problems from reading his books. In the past, he’d ignored this, let it bounce off whatever conscience he allowed himself to have. But then, he was good at ignoring things, at selecting his realities.

Don’t get into that. Not now. Just accept that you fucked up and get on with things. That’s all you can do now. Let Simon Pierce die and let Jac Munroe live.

He did a search on owning a pet dog and was surprised by the number of them that used the word “adoption” as though you were buying a family member as opposed to a pet. And the prices were through the ceiling, even at the animal shelters.

They want me to pay over two hundred bucks for a dog that nobody wants?

He looked at the bad photographs of dogs waiting to be adopted, the red-eye glare obscuring what was supposed to be big brown eyes “looking for a loving home.” They were mostly full body shots of animals that looked like their bodies had been through hell.

Portraits would be so much better. You can’t tell the character of a dog, or any living thing, through its body. You need to see the eyes, the curvature of the face.

He’d never had a dog but he knew this to be true of life; thus, it was true of dogs. He studied the images of terriers, boxers, shih tzus, Siberian huskies and breeds he imagined the people placing the ads were making wild guesses at. There seemed to be more terriers than other breeds. He wondered if terriers had bad tempers, if they bit children or if they weren’t really looking for a loving family and just wanted to be left alone.

Do I really deserve to own a dog after what I did? Do I deserve to feel comforted with the body heat of a dog pressed against me on a cold night? I made children kill their pets. Their dogs, their hamsters. Janie was a virus I created to infect the lives of innocent children who suffered because of my writing.

It occurred to him that he needed to right a wrong. He needed to do something good to balance out the bad that he’d done. At first, he wasn’t too hot about the idea and questioned his sincerity. He questioned if there was anything he could ever do to balance things.

You can’t bring a ten-year old boy and his dog back from the dead.

But the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of turning his writing towards hope and the idea that everything in life should be cherished rather than abandoned.

But what am I going to write about? What do I know enough about that I can write stories that’ll inspire positive feelings toward life? Positive feelings.

He scrolled down the page of pathetic looking animals with severe red-eye. He scrolled past a picture of a Beagle and quickly scrolled back up. It was a skinny excuse for a dog but there was something about it that attracted Jac. It was $150 but it came with all its shots taken care of. There was something about the way its head was cocked to one side, as if it knew what the picture was for, as if it were posing for that “loving” home. He called the shelter and asked it the dog were still available. It was. The girl on the other end started asking questions about him. He said he would call back and hung up.

This is it. This is where I go next.

It was all so clear: the next step in his writing career. He would buy the Beagle and he would go on adventures with it in the park and he would write children’s stories about him and his dog. He would need a new pen name, one that would sum up his love for his dog and wouldn’t be associated with the ire of a hateful reading public. He would have to come up with a name for the dog.

What do you call a Beagle? Snoopy?

He visited sites on raising dogs, dog health, how to properly feed a dog, medical care for dogs, dog training, dog psychology, dog toys, dog clothing, dog owner support groups, dog accessories, dog vacations, dog rights…

There’s a lot more to this dog thing than initially meets the eye.

He navigated back to the picture of the Beagle and imagined himself walking down the street with the Beagle on a leash walking proudly in front of Jac, woofing hello to passersby and others walking their dogs. He imagined himself sitting on the couch looking out the window with the dog asleep on the couch beside him. He imagined throwing Frisbees in the park, the dog jumping into the air to make brilliant catches. Women passing by and seeing Jac and his Beagle would stop and ask him questions about the dog.

Anything’s possible now. Anything.

He looked out the window. Shadows of buildings stretched across the park as the sun set. It was getting dark earlier each day and from where he sat, the bare branches of trees looked like surreal plumbing in the sky framed by the windows. It suddenly occurred to him that he wanted to go for a walk in the park and think about his future.

First, though, he went online and sent a message.

***

He savored the pastrami and mustard burp. He’d eaten slowly, relishing each bite, letting the flavors roll across his tongue, the textures rub against the flesh of his mouth. The twilit shadows and highlights of trees in the park as the sun went down created a fascinating park silhouette outlined by the lamps that lined its paths. There were still joggers and walkers, people sitting on benches but the baby strollers were in for the day and the park was quiet. People still nodded as they passed him.

He found an empty bench surrounded by bushes. He sat down and stretched his legs out in front of him. It was all so strange to him. Everything he’d believed in for as long as he could remember was suddenly the stuff of memory. He didn’t believe any of it. There was value to life and value in valuing life. It was OK to want things, to love things, to hold things in your hand and tell yourself, “This is mine and I love it.” Even if you lost it, it was yours until you lost it.

He still missed his mother and he sometimes thought about Alex, wondering where he was and what kind of adult he’d grown up to be. He missed the house in the country and the kitchen where he’d spent so much time with his mother. He remembered the aromas of things baking in the oven or cooking in skillets on the stove, the delicious heaviness of food smell, making his mouth water, his stomach ache. He remembered warmth and comfort, in spite of his mother’s teachings and warnings.

All that had changed when his mother died and the dreams started. He barely remembered the years after his mother’s death, the same routine each day, but with Miss Winchester. He barely remembered what she looked like or the sound of her voice. His memory of her and every minute spent with her was a blur.

And that made him wonder about the memory lapses, the tiny anomalies over the years that he couldn’t put his finger on and say, “I remember this clearly. Here’s what happened…” A part of him knew that was never going to happen. A part of him wanted desperately for that to happen. Another part of him gaped fearfully at the possibility of that ever happening.

What is that? What is there about my life, hidden from me through all this forgetting and ignoring things that I should be afraid of it? What am I afraid of?

The night was surprisingly warm for the time of year. The park was quiet, serene and comfortable. Sitting on the bench, savoring the scent of dead leaves, he suddenly felt a wave of relaxation course through his body. The questions and doubts evaporated into a cloud of uncaring as his head slumped to one side and he fell asleep.

***

Natalie was frantic. It was long past the time for Jac and he still wasn’t home. She hadn’t seen him leave the building.

They’re all going out more often now. Out on their own. Where I can’t keep an eye on them. How long can I keep this up with them going off on their own like this?

What will happen if Jackie wakes up before the transformation is complete?

What?

 

 

Episode 61: Friday – Jacques

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 61

Jacques was tickled with himself. He’d just written a novel in record time and revisions had steamed along faster than ever before; in fact, revisions had been mostly just reading the novel and enjoying it while correcting the occasional spelling error.

I think I’ve found my niche…where I can write from the heart and the soul without having to change my words later. Insufferable Bitch…you’re such a better writer than Jasmine Jackson.

And hotter.

But it was time to read Jasmine’s email. He lay his cigar into pristine ashtray and opened his mail.

There were over a hundred messages offering condolences, encouragement, support, suggestions for treatment, anger at the hackers “who did this to you…they should be punished,” old family recipes, requests for advice on how to write a novel, praise for her work, praise for her courage, questions about her sex life, requests for her to read somebody’s “just finished novel that’s going to be the next box office best seller of all time,” and an email from Judy. Jacques smiled as he opened her message.

Arial 84

How many glasses of wine have you had, Judy? Three, four…?

Arial 85

Hear that, Jasmine? Fuck you. Looks like it’s time for you to slip into the big sleep. Judy thinks you’re just a reflection of her life. Judy’s drunk. Judy’s a psycho. Fuck you, Judy.

Almost as soon as he thought the words, he regretted them. He didn’t harbor any bad feelings toward Judy Armstrong, the forty-three year old woman living alone after the breakup of her marriage.

And how long have you been living alone, Judy? All by yourself, wanting to write a novel but not knowing how, just writing a bunch of pages and throwing them out and writing a bunch more pages.

There were times when he felt frustrated reading Jasmine’s fan mail, especially those from the most desperate women, the housewives who dropped out of college or gave up their dreams to go to the big city and grab the world by the ass to stay home and raise a child, and then another child. And there were the lonely ones, the ones who were never even seen by men and pretty much invisible to most women. To them, the stories and characters in Jasmine Jackson’s novels were more real than their own lives, which were nothing more than something to escape; Jasmine’s novels were something to immerse themselves in and float away on a raft of dreams.

He wondered if he should reply to Judy’s message. He could be kind, try to let her know that he knew where she was, what she was going through, her pain. But he really didn’t feel that way and he wasn’t Jasmine Jackson anymore. He was the Insufferable Bitch. He needed to cut loose from Jasmine and all the Judys in the world.

Cut loose.

Good.

Time for a walk in the park.

***

If they’d seen how I was dressed just a few hours ago…

The young skate boarders littering the sidewalk in front of him eyed him closely, suspiciously. Today, Jacques wore pajama pants, a red plaid hunting shirt and a light brown, down-filled vest. He didn’t think he looked that much out of the normal to merit the scrutinizing he was getting.

Maybe I should have worn shoes instead of sandals.

As he walked through the group, he heard one of them say, “Naw, that’s not him. He wouldn’t dress that weird. Just some guy that looks like him.”

He turned and looked at a tall lanky kid with a baseball cap on backwards. The kid looked back at him and squinted his eyes as though trying to figure something out. Something about his face seemed familiar but Jacques was certain that he’d never seen him and, if he had, it would have been just in passing when he was on his way to a laundromat, or the rare time he went to a store or restaurant. Their eyes met for just an instant before both men snapped back to their own worlds.

On his way to the park an unusually high volume of traffic had stopped him from crossing the street in front of his building so he started walking along the street. For the first time ever, he allowed himself to actually see the street: the buildings, the street lamps and power poles, the shops and apartment balconies, the red and blue brick, the cafes and restaurants, the boutique art galleries, the cement planters with wilted flowers and dried headless stems. He followed a hundred scents: fresh paint drifted out of a building down the street from his flat. His nostrils hummed with the greasy aroma of sausage, pork and chicken frying on grills in the restaurants. The stench of sewage reeked from metal vents in the curbs, the bouquet of flowers seeped out the open doors of flower shops. He followed the sound of classical music emanating from somewhere in the windows on the floors above the shops and galleries. Horns honked in the distance and an engine accelerated loudly beside him as the light turned green. The sun was bright and beginning to cast the first long shadows of late afternoon.

Jacques was spellbound by the feelings the street invoked in him. He’d always thought of the streets in his neighborhood as routes to laundromats. The thought had never occurred to him that he might walk along the sidewalk just for the sheer joy of walking along the sidewalk. He hadn’t traveled much in his life. He’d been downtown a couple of times and had cabbed to laundromats miles from his neighborhood. But he’d noticed that there was a distinct difference between his neighborhood and other areas of the city. It was closer here. More relaxed. He thought it might have something to do with one side of the street having buildings and the other side, a park. Everyone had a view of the park, a perfect square forming a chlorophyll hub at the center of a few hundred lives. From the very tops of buildings, you could barely see the tops of the buildings on the other side of the park. He wondered why he’d never thought of these things before. He wondered why he’d never felt these things before.

That kid said I was dressed weird, that I wasn’t someone else. What did he mean by that?

With that thought, the mood crumbled. The street was a street. The sun was getting lower, the shadows longer. The memory was back.

Whose clothes was I wearing? Whose phone did I have?

He stopped and stared into the window of an antiques store. He focused his mind on seeing the ancient grandfather clocks, the 1950s license plates, the wide-eyed dolls with elaborate dresses.

Whose?

That was the pattern of his life. The trick to survival was to shrug off the questions and accept the reality of the situation: there were no answers.

Just shrug it off.

He walked around the entire park. Street lights buzzed with clouds of insects making one last hurrah before the frost came to erase their lives. The air was chilly and he was cold, his fingers and toes were numb. He needed a beer. He needed to stop questioning and just accept and get on with his life. When there were no answers, you lived around or through the questions.

 

 

 

 

Episode 60: Thursday – Jacky

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 60

Light. His eyes were still closed but the light was unmistakable, right there, on the other side of his lids. Not bright, but there. Far away. On the other side of his sleep, his oblivion. Light. He tried to force his eyes to open, his lids to lift. Somehow, the light was associated with the slug feeling in his stomach, the heavy gnaw that pushed against his intestines, against his ribs and into his lungs to stop his breathing. It sucked the energy out of his arms and legs, solidified into solid pain as it wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed.

She’s dead.

He opened his eyes and the tears spilled out.

***

He couldn’t remember what was on the plate on his desk; It could have been just an empty plate he’d put there with some imaginary breakfast that he didn’t feel like eating. On his laptop screen luscious red petals wrapped around themselves in the spiraling beauty of a wild rose but he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember if he’d already processed the image or if he’d just opened it. The picture meant nothing to him. He had no idea why it was on the screen.

His arms were beginning to fatigue from holding his hands over the keyboard where they did nothing. Or had they done something? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. The slug feeling in his stomach was the slug of his entire body and his thoughts. He was a slug crawling through a pit of grief. He thought about going out on his bike to take some photos but he didn’t feel like doing that. He thought about showing up at the mall early to talk to his customers but he didn’t feel like doing that either. He looked at the empty plate and at the monitor with the rose petals all wrapped and wrapped and wrapped…

***

He had no idea what time it was. It was still daylight. He wasn’t sure if the sun was coming up or if it were going down. Was it morning or afternoon? He didn’t care. He didn’t think about it. He stared at the two high windows. The curtains were drawn. There was sunlight on the other side of them giving them luminance and highlighting the swirl pattern that he’d never really noticed before and barely noticed now.

She’s dead. Gone.

His stomach rumbled but he wasn’t hungry. The thought of food made him nauseous. Looking at the sunlit curtains made him nauseous. Sitting in the chair made him nauseous. Breathing made him nauseous. His fingers scratched the arms of the chair as he sat staring at the curtains.

***

Natalie gazed out the window at the long shadows of buildings and trees as the sun went down. Jacky had stayed in his flat all day. Natalie had read about Krista’s death in the local newsfeeds. All day, she’d been tempted to knock on his door. She wanted to hold her son in her arms and tell him how bad she felt and how cruel it was that he should lose the woman he loved. She wanted to absorb his tears with her love.

But that could come too close to giving everything away. It would be almost certain that he would see who she was, that she was his mother and had been alive all these years.

And then what would happen?

 

 

Episode 59: Wednesday – Jax

(New to The Weekly Man? Click here. Reading on your phone? Click here.)

Episode 59

Jax read Simon Pierce’s post three times before it  started to sink in. The books were gone from his website. The soul-poisoning words had disappeared—everything replaced with:

Arial 79

And he destroyed his masterpiece. The piece he said I inspired. Destroyed it.

Arial 80

Me. He’s referring to me. The crazy guy. Me.  

Arial 81

He’s dead. Simon Pierce is dead. He’s dead.

Arial 82

He had a change of heart. Simon Pierce is repentant. And he’s dead. And I taught him that.

Arial 83

I killed him. I killed Simon Pierce. I did.

Jax practically ran to the washroom and barely stuck his head over the toilet bowl in time to vomit. He vomited his breakfast. He vomited streams of viscous fluid that clung to his lips and dripped slowly into the bowl. He vomited air.

I killed him. I killed him with my words, with my message. I killed a man.

With each dry heave, the enormity of what he’d done became a reality beyond his plans to kill a man, his intent to stab him to death or to cut his throat. No matter his failure to physically kill Pierce, he’d killed him.

Made him dead. Took his life.

His mind spun around the thought. He grabbed his head with both hands. Tears burst from his eyes. His chest heaved.

I killed him. I killed Simon Pierce. With my words.

He cried for an hour, hugging the toilet bowl.

***

“You have done well, Jax MacDonald. You have saved the world from the poisonous influence of Simon Pierce.”

I’ve saved the world.

“His venom flowed across the firmament like a foul wave of cigarette tar.”

Cigarette tar.

“He was a tortured demon and you put him out of his misery. You saved him.
Saved him.

“This was an act of goodness.”

I’m a good man.

“And now you are free to spread my message. You will be saved. The world will be saved.”

I’m going to be saved. We’re all going to be saved.

He sat back and stared at the monitor, seeing nothing.

Simon Pierce is dead. His message of hate is no more. Ratlas has accepted me again and its message will continue to flow through me and we’ll all be saved.

I killed a man.

He sat for an hour before turning his laptop off and walking slowly like a man dazed by the sheer sensation of movement. It seemed to him that he could feel every molecule in the air as he walked across the living room floor to the window where he stared down at the park.

I killed a man.

He felt a powerful urge to walk in the park.

***

I killed a man.

He didn’t see the runners swooshing past him but he sensed the wakes of deodorant and microscopic clouds of sweat. He didn’t see crinkled dead leaves tumbling over the grass but he felt the density of the wind pushing like a wall of energy on his right side. He didn’t see the people sitting on benches or walking hunched forward into the brisk wind. His presence seemed to float around them without making contact, without any person-to-person acknowledgement. He felt alone, separated from the park and its people, the people he’d been trying to save for so long.

Ratlas had commended him on getting rid of Pierce. He hadn’t stabbed him to death as he’d planned and he hadn’t incited anyone else to kill him. Somehow, he’d done it with his words, with his message. Somehow, he’d inspired Simon Pierce to write a masterpiece that, Jax assumed, was so vile that its creator could no longer live with his own evil. In a way, Jax felt that his message on The Word and All Its Meanings and Forms had caused the writer to overload on his own evil and then burn out the wiring of his life on his own excess, leaving him with no alternative but to destroy both himself and his work.

I made him a brave man, ready to give up his life to atone for his sins.

He felt good about this thought. It made him feel that he’d not only done something worthwhile for the human race, but for Pierce as well. He’d released the evil-doer from his personal hell. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the self-torment of a man who could so thoroughly poison the minds and wills of others, like the odor emanating from a rotting fish. He was the rotting fish.

I killed a man.

He couldn’t shake it. It was there. He’d killed a man, not be stabbing or any physical means, but with words and ideas that had eventually driven the man to take his own life.

Or maybe he was a coward who couldn’t face up to his actions and killed himself out of fear.

He wondered how he felt about that. Did he, through his messages, somehow instill fear in Simon Pierce, driving him to a level of self-loathing that became so intolerable that he feared life, feared what he had done to it and felt that life itself had turned on him and, out of fear and cowardice in the face of what he’d done, he’d killed himself?

It seemed to him that he walked right through the walkers and the runners, as though he were in some other place far away from them, as though he were in a different world than the one he was trying to save for them.

“Hello!”

Jax snapped out of it, like being waked up by a slap in the face. It was a young woman in running shorts and a skimpy top.

“So…who are you today?”

Jax looked at her, dumbfounded.

The woman stopped running on the spot, walked up to him, pushed her head inches away from his and stared squarely into his eyes. “Hello! Anybody home in there?”

He didn’t know what to say, what to think.

Who….?

“Don’t you remember me? I got you mixed up with someone else? The photographer at the mall.” She paused and thought for a moment. “I guess you weren’t in the park yesterday.”

Cautiously, Jax shook his head no.

“Or anytime this week?”

He shook his head.

“Well, whoever you are, I think you need to get some serious help.” And she was gone.

What?

***

He closed his eyes and let the message flow into his fingers as they gyrated over the keyboard.

I HAVE NEWS OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE: I WISH I COULD SAY THAT IT’S ABOUT THE DISCONTINUED USE OF PLASTIC BUT I SUPPOSE THAT THIS IS ONE STEP TOWARD THAT END WITH THE POISONER OF MINDS NO LONGER BEING AMONG US TO SPREAD HIS VENOMOUS MESSAGE OF HOPELESSNESS WHEN THERE IS SO MUCH HOPE TO BE HAD IN BUILDING A WORLD WHERE THE AIR CAN BE BREATHED AGAIN AND THE SOIL IS HEALTHY AND YIELDING OF BUMPER CROPS OF FOOD THAT HAS NOT BEEN CONTAMINATED WITH CHEMICALS AND BIOLOGICAL MANIPULATION TURNING IT INTO SOMETHING SO UNNATURAL THAT IT COULD HAVE GENETIC CONSEQUENCES FOR GENERATIONS OF HUMANITY IN A WORLD WHERE THE OCEANS MUST BE SCOURED OF PLASTIC THAT IS GETTING INTO THE FINS OF FISHES AND BECOMINGN A PART OF THE GENOME OF OUR WATERY FRIENDS AND FOOD AND PEOPLE STILL GO ON USING PLASTIC AND OUR GOVERNMENTS ALLOW ITS CONTINUED USE AS THEY RECEIVE PAYOFFS FROM THOSE WHO WOULD DISRUPT THE NATURAL ORDER OF A PLASTIC-LESS WORLD.

SIMON PIERCE IS DEAD.

BUT PLASTIC IS STILL BEING USED.

STOP IT!!!!