Sematectonics

Sematectonics

Part One: The Medicine Bag

 

By John Ashley Whitaker

 

 

“What are you doing today?” asks Dixie’s boyfriend. She hates that fucking question, if she doesn’t have an answer it is going to be followed by, “You want to hang out then?” Her boyfriend was such a good person, but not manly enough sometimes. She wished he would just say, “Hey, I want to come over and fuck.” She lies to him and tells him she is going to be working for the next six hours and will call him back. She really just wants to be alone for the moment with her vibrator and put in some porn. “Good ol’ Man-o’-War”, she exclaims then adds “my true love gets me so hot”. She kisses her favorite sex toy and reaffirms to it, “I love you the most. What fucking good are men anyway?” She gets off and she sit’s and thinks. “Maybe I will do the dishes—then I would feel better about myself. I wanna beer; ah fuck its 10AM. I think I have an eBay auction ending today—fuck I need coffee—I'll make more coffee. My mind is so restless, I'm so listless and anxious all the time—I'll roll a joint—that's what I'll do.” It was a nice crisp and clear morning in Reaction Kansas. Everything is going quite fine in Dixie’s life except for one thing. She lives in a great house, has plenty of money and free time. She also has a loving and kind boyfriend and they are madly in love with each other. The only problem is he can’t make her cum, sexually he is too passive and reluctant to give her the kind of carnal fuck she so often craves. In that regard Dixie thinks of most men of being pussies. She is a vixen, she intimidates men, her body is hard and limber from doing yoga, and her skin and hair look like they could have been stolen of an angel she killed. Her eyes are dark energy in color and her hair is dyed blue. She has a tattoo on the back of her neck that reads, “Life Feeds on Life” and above it a solid black five-pointed star.

 

Dixie lives in a quiet suburban neighborhood in the small college city of Reaction, Kansas. Across the street from her home is what used to be a swamp until the water was drained by the city. Suddenly suburbia ends and a dense forest begins. Ivy covers the entire forest floor in the summer and there are lush green plants that glow as the light comes through the trees. She discovers it while she is jogging on the nature trail on the other side of the forest. The trail is jokingly called the Rape Trail. She’d heard about it, but never met anyone who had actually had been raped on the trail. Nothing like that worried her anyway. She believed that as long as she controlled her thoughts and had only positive thoughts it would always reflect in her world. She considers herself to be a bit of a sorcerer and metaphysician. Nevertheless, the woods are well known for a good place for criminals to escape after a robbery, deal drugs and for juveniles to ditch school and get drunk. The part of the forest Dixie was on is off the concrete path, secluded from the main trail. Unlike the part of the forest where the city built a concrete path by chopping out swaths of trees and vines this path was not beaten down, it is rather a path that had been long grown over with the rest of the ivy on the forest floor, but it is clearly a path that is easy to see. The place where this path leads is known only to a few shamans of the mystic Waokans, carefully passed down from ancient times. The significance of the place it that it is a vortex which allows one to obtain a power in life, a power that can only be trusted by those who have absorbed the wisdom of the Great Mystery, if it were to be exposed to anyone else a disaster would ensue leaving the elders with no other choice, but to sacrifice the 12 Vestal Virgins to the Sun and let the wisdom lie dormant again maybe even forever or until they can find a way for the Great Healing to take hold. Dixie Hawks has never heard of the Woakans and she doesn’t know anything about mystical things, she is a metaphysical master, but she is among the lest prepared in in all eternity for the place she is about to go.

 

She is in the midst of a battle of mind and thoughts and has been ever since she can remember. In addition to this battle she is in a battle of emotion and feelings. It has been years since she began to practice the art of thought control. She has improved her mind and her mood substantially since taking control of her thought life, but still everyday there where new and more complex challenges that present themselves. She wonders where they all come from and why they continue to manifest when she is so good at controlling her thoughts.

 

Dixie smokes about half a joint and sips on coffee while she browses the internet, aimlessly surfing Facebook for some type of a clue or direction on which way to turn. She feels hopeless, bored and desperate in this moment. The day seems to be like salt on a wound. These are the feelings that lead Dixie to clicking on a link where she begins to watch a movie called “The Secret” about the Law of Attraction. She watches the movie three times in a row. She thinks, “I have the answer now. I know now that I can take control of my life for good.” Dixie loves the feeling of positivity. She gets some index cards and begins to write down affirmations and repeats them to herself. The affirmations are designed for her to create the exact life she wants to have, she has complete control over the process and she loves having control. She has lived a life of such great struggle and strife. She wants to experience more freedom. “It could have been this easy all along.” She thinks. “I just needed to realize my true power. Ask, believe and receive. It’s as simple as that.”

 

She has a stack of 3 x 5 index cards and she picks them up and sits cross-legged taking a few deep breaths before she begins to say them aloud, boldly and consciously. She call’s them her brain worshing cards.

 

“I am generating powerful thoughts and passing them through my mind, producing vitality and energy.”

 

“My life is magical.”

 

“I am a Divine masterpiece.”

 

“There is unlimited power and strength available to me.”

 

“I have an abundant supply of the energy required to complete my plans and I become stronger as I finalize each goal.”

 

“My personal presence makes people feel purposeful and powerful, giving them a sense of mental clarity and creativity.”

 

“Through self-discipline, laborious mental effort and steady repetition, I have re-programmed my mind to think what I want it to think.”

 

“I make things happen in my favor by moving in a fast, but in a calm and confident way.”

 

“It is impossible for me to fail. Everything that happens somehow contributes to greater success.”

 

“In my world, nothing could possibly go wrong.”

 

“I am my own eco-system, the author of my own book; I create reality with ideas from my own mind.”

 

“These statements I make take hold  in my brain and attach themselves to my mind, shaping my thought processes.”

 

No matter how simple the formula is, she is in a battle of the mind. A battle between positive and negative, she continues to toil in the struggle. Sometimes she reads the cards, other times she just repeats the statements because she knows them by heart. When she makes a statement she visualizes it sinking into her subconscious mind. She is proud of how well she has fared in the battle up until now and she considers her ability to put up with the struggle part of who she is. In a way she knows that without the struggle she wouldn’t know who she is. She tries to visualize her boyfriend ever giving her a good fuck and it just doesn’t seem possible. This uncontrollable fantasy always leads to despair.  She knows the path, but doesn’t know what do when she loses it. She just looks for the path again anytime she gets lost. Sometimes taking the path is the reason people don’t find what they’re looking for—just because there is a path doesn’t mean is goes to the right place.

 

The one escape she finds from this pain taking walks in the woods along the so-called Rape Trail. When the anxiety becomes too great, she smokes a half a blunt and takes a walk, walking in between the high rise apartment building, Burger Lion and the grocery store.   As she crosses the road she sees an owl land on top of a stop sign. She pauses to look at the owl and the owl doesn’t seem to mind. The sun is out, but its cold and it starts steadily snowing. She walks into the trees she sees what she knows as the winter wonderland. It’s beautiful, it’s mystical and it came on without any warning. Just moments before the sun was shining, now she cannot help but think of how all the stupid Kansas people are going to walking around all day repeating the phrase, “That’s Kansas weather for ya’.” She found it utterly annoying, but she knew they would be saying it all day. She say’s to herself, “Well, that’s Kansan’s for you. You fucking stupid rednecks.”  Snow is blowing through the branches and the light fluctuates as the winter storm moves in creating a flickering in the magical contrast of the forest. She hears loud thunder and the sky becomes overcast. The snow is already piling up at least 6 inches over the forest floor in most places, the creek is still flowing with water. The path through the woods stands out as obvious as it ever did even with the snow cover. The path leads towards the south where the light from the sun is no longer visible in the winter blizzard. She crosses an old bridge with a giant oak tree that looks like it could be 500 years old. It looks like it has eyes and looks peaceful and wise with deep veins. The roots are visible from erosion and there is a small cave underneath it big enough for a person to camp where it’s perfectly dry.  Suddenly from a hole towards the top of the tree she sees an owl poke out its head. For several minutes he stood and watched the owl then she sees two young owls look out the hole. At the bottom of the tree where the roots are showing she sees the end of rattlesnake tale slither into a hole. The snakes are done hibernating for the winter this snow coming down is a fluke of nature.  They look at Dixie for a while and see looks back. She had never seen so many owls during the day. The owl’s face and the tree seemed to be woven together in some way and both interwoven with the wisdom of the Great Mystery, but the Great Mystery is only a flash in her mind.

 

Dixie isn’t dressed for the cold  nothing can be done about the wind blowing on her face and the chill throughout her body. She fights the cold for the reward of seeing the mysterious beauty she is seeing. To her this walk in the woods in the snow on this fine morning is an incredible treat. It reminds her of her childhood, back when she seemed to be on the right side of the magic and subtle feeling of deadness and boredom hadn’t yet sunk in. She couldn't help but think of herself as a child wondering into a dimension of delight and ecstasy that seemed to slip through her consciousness without her being able to grasp it and then she soon forgot it. It was almost as if it was a dreamland only familiar to her when she was asleep. It feels so great and beautiful to her she soon forgets the cold as she walks in bewilderment among the forming virgin snow drifts.  The wind blows but there is silence. It's just her and the snow, nothing else or no one else seems to be out there. Dixie with her bright blue hair, piercing black eyes and black star tattoo showing on her neck stands out in bold contrast amidst the background of white crystals.

 

Three hawks are flying due north, gliding low with their wings bent and looking for something to eat in barren winter land—spring slowly creeping. She looks for the next sign from the Great Mystery and spots a Red Hawk feather lying inside the print of large paw print. She thinks she hears something like brushes and leaves cracking. She had heard of recent mountain lion sightings in the area and for some reason when she thinks she hears the noise she immediately associates the thought with the news she heard. She knows her mind likes to play tricks on her so she doesn’t let the paranoia get to her. She was amazed by the size of the paw print which was the only one she could see as most of the land was covered with snow except by the creek where water is still flowing and the snow isn’t sticking. “It easily could be a big dog.” She thinks. The park is well traveled with people walking or running their dogs. Although the park is in the woods it is within city limits, it is secluded, but a public place and someone could show up at any time. When there is not snow on the ground she remembers seeing trash and debris sprinkled about the whole area. Dixie has seen many little abandoned party spots on her walks back there. Places in the woods where some folks just rolled up drank a 12-pack, did some drugs and had some sex leaving all the evidence behind. She had seen beer bottles, used condoms and needles left in spots several times on her walks. It was obvious why it was nicknamed the Rape Trail. Sometimes their where creepy things she came across that she can’t even remember because she made herself ignore them. None of this ever scared Dixie; she is way above that shit. She had been raped before, but she didn’t consider herself a rape victim or a rape survivor, but a victor and a master of thought. There was no way she would have let getting raped let her lose control over her mind. Her family and friends kind of she thought expected her to act like a victim, to be traumatized and have psychological disorders. Her sweet boyfriend especially, she thought was turned off by the fact that she really didn’t give a fuck about getting raped and begged for him to just fuck her like a man. She liked getting fucked with her cloths mostly on, the man being so hard and hot and in a hurry that he can’t even wait to get them off. There is something about that she finds so goddamn sexy.

 

She didn’t really know these things for sure, but she suspected them to be true and she secretly resented them all for it. She did pity her poor little sister and that she never had a chance in life. She so vividly remembers her mentally retarded little sister no matter how much she wishes she could forget her. She was so sweet, yet so gross and such a burden. She always had snot coming out of her nose and smelled of piss and shitty pants. Her hair would be matted, twisted and there was always some type of flaming sore on her face or lip. The bulging sores on her slobbery snotty face is what Dixie remembers the most. Each sore burned a spot on her brain. They were so gross and painful looking yet she couldn’t shake the memories. She was always embarrassed to be in public and disgusted by her droopy little ways and ugliness. She remembers secretly wishing she could have a real sister and not a dependent mental retard.  At the same time she loved her, she saw that she was sweet and kind and had trained herself to always keep an eye on her wherever they went. It has been ten years now since her and her sister where kidnapped by a sadistic cult leader named Heinous Cockburn then tortured and gang-raped by him and his 3 sons who were born of incest and raised with constant abuse. They had been around Reaction for years, but lived mostly as hermits, but have been known to attract followers outside of the family from time to time. The have an especially keen interest in preying on people with mental problems, to them the more freakish and ugly a person is the better. They are one of the most twisted group of screwheads ever known to man, sick to the bone and dangerous. Even though they are well thought to have committed crimes there was never been enough proof for a conviction. The prosecuting attorney was an incompetent idiot. He did more damage than good, but he did do a good job of explaining to Dixie she was to play her part as a victim so that he would have a better chance at winning the case. That’s what she did though, is played the part, but deep down she knew she wasn’t a victim. She never let it affect her heart. Dixie although she was drastically injured made it through the ordeal alive, but her sister died during the attack and she was a witness to the brutal rape and murder of her sister. The Heinous Boys raped them both before and after the murder. Dixie was 13 whe she had gotten pregnant during the rape and that pregnancy was aborted shortly afterward. Dixie was beaten unconscious, but there are parts which she remembers in vivid detail as if time is frozen there. When she remembers her sisters innocent crossed-eyed face for the last time and sees that look of absolute helplessness—and then feeling a sense of relief when she saw her die with Heinous Cockburns pulsating penis insider her wet little pussy. Since that moment she has felt a deep sense of guilt. She even felt guilty after the abortion and she wasn’t even against abortion, but in her case she felt she was doing wrong. She would think about aborted fetuses soul and wondered what it could have been. No matter how much mind control she produces – no matter how many manifestations she achieves she cannot forget that moment she last saw her life when she was innocent.  Dixie knows these weren’t the types of things a therapist or a preacher can handle. She had seen her share of them including that fucking dumbass at the Christian counseling center and that damn cunt school counselor in Jr. High.  They acted non-judgmental, but deep-down she knew they thought she was just a whore, because she liked getting fucked and being dominated and losing control. She wasn’t going cry over something she had no control over and even deep down made her to now be freer, as much as she tried to not think about it. She now had her own life and didn’t have to take care of anyone, but herself. She believes that only dominion over one’s own mind can cope with this suffering and it is the power of positive thinking that she masters to get through it all. She uses her suffering to create a positive out of it. She trains herself to think of all the good things she learns from being victimized. It has allowed her to gain a more objective perspective. She has even tried to get her sweet boyfriend to be a little rougher with her during sex, but he feels strange about it. “I’d love to beat those guys’ asses.” He would say about it, but she knows if it came down to it Heinous Cockburn would have raped her pussy boyfriend to. In a way she would kind of like to see it happen just to shut him up.  He was a good guy, but not a tough guy, not like Heinous Cockburn and certainly no Man-o’-War. He wore hair gel for crying out loud, he couldn’t beat up his own shadow.  He is dark and handsome, but couldn’t fuck worth a shit either. She feels she is like any other person with a carnal instinct to want to be ragingly and passionately fucked every once in a while.

 

She walks through the woods where she can see there is a trail and feels that she is on it until she comes to a clearing. She sees a hawk glide from behind her and graces its way through the tree line soaring into the horizon.  A flock of cardinals where making their way through the brush along the tree line. There is yellow and orange prairie grass coming out of the snow that looks like fire on top of the white carpet. From there she can see that the path goes around the outer perimeter of the clearing. Then in the lowest part of the open prairie is spot that Dixie is drawn to like an irresistible magnet. She falls to the ground there and kisses the snow covered ground. There is another beautiful and giant tree that stands out from all the others. The tree looks illuminated like the moon to her, like a wise old man or wise owl with a wrinkled, grey face. She lays there, she caresses that spot and she relaxes--she loves, she feels the love and is the love. She sits up and begins to meditate; now she feels warm. She forgets the snow she is so warm she sees in her vision plush green plants and vibrant growing grasses and trees as the sun radiates warmth and energy into to her. She thinks of Chlorophyll and like a plant, she is feeling herself gain energy from the sun. Although the sun is obstructed by the snow and it is getting close to below zero, she cannot only see it, she is it, it is in her and she basks in it. Time is irrelevant to her. The state that she is in is a timeless state; the place she is in is an infinite and eternal one. She feels as if she as melted into the very essence of life itself—the cosmos. She has never felt so free, so beautiful and so wonderful.

 

She has not a thought in her mind as she slowly takes a deep breath that drops into her chest and the oxygen goes into her blood, cleansing it and purifying her body. She holds the air inside her and feels it bringing joy to her heart before she slowly gives it back to the atmosphere. She can feel the warm blood flow into her legs and she centers muscle tension in her calves and thighs first then plays with her energy activating different muscle groups at her will. Then she allows the life energy to rise through her body with fresh blood rushing through her brain, taking her outside and above her brain through the top of her head. She sees beautiful hues of indigo, violet and magenta as she is above the mind and separate from time and space.

 

The answers to all of life’s questions, she had wondered about deeply are all answered to her—she has slipped into a realm of the invisible spiritual world; finally she feels she has conquered her own mind. She lets go of the world as she knows it and sees reality as it really is. She say’s to herself aloud, “I feel so fucking good.” And without thinking about say’s it again and again— When the snow blows the wind seems to change the color of the snow and rainbows of flashing colors are also living beings flashing in and out of form and transforming. She is standing there vulnerable and abandoned, free and liberated from all the limitations she has ever known. The Great Mystery was revealing itself to her and she is embracing it in all its glory.

 

She is encompassed by a flash of light. She finds herself now in a Native American village, she hears drums and sees people dancing and chanting around a fire. There are 30 teepees on the hillside now and children running barefoot through the tall grass. She is sitting 10 feet away from a teepee where there is an old woman sitting and seems to be quietly praying. She is wrapped with a brightly rainbow colored blanket and there are 3 feathers tied into her hair. She opens her eyes when Dixie looks here way and stays motionless and silent. About a minute passes before a young boy runs up to Dixie and hands her a large yellow mushroom. The boy giggles at Dixie, their eyes connect and he motions for her to take a bite out of it. He has a face that looks beatific and angelic. The old woman stands up and takes a few steps over to the two of them. She gently takes the mushroom and places in a small bag made of what looked like a fox pelt with 3 feathers attached to it. Embedded into the bag where fine gems: black opals, star sapphires, rubies and diamonds. Treasures seemed to be abundant in this vibrant world. The old woman is wearing a necklace made of turquoise and gold. There are stacks of jade and fine spices and herbs lying around her tent. When the old woman opens the bag to put the mushroom in it Dixie notices it has other things in the bag, like smaller leather pouches tied shut and some clay vials with corks on the top. There is also a pipe inside the bag that reminds Dixie of her dildo, Man-o’-War. The woman takes out a small leather pouch to place the mushroom in, but before she does so she tears it up into small pieces. She takes a piece and places it in her mouth and chews it up and swallows it. She then gives the child a piece of the mushroom. The old woman and the boy are speaking to each other in a language Dixie cannot comprehend. The old woman tells the little boy something and motions towards the drum circle where the drums are steadily pounding in an astounding way. The boy runs to the fire and grabs one of the dancing men from the crowd, tugging on his leg.

 

The man is wearing a headdress made of the tail feathers of a red hawk and has war paint on his face that resembles cuts from a cat’s paw. He approaches Dixie and puts out his hand. The old woman has a knife made of bone and she carefully pokes a hole in man’s wrist while he stands in silence dripping bright red blood onto the green grass. She then takes a big piece of the mushroom and soaks it in the man’s wound, letting his blood soak into it. She then places it in a leather pouch and with a dap of blood marks the bag. The old woman leads Dixie, the man and the child into her tepee. Cradled next to a small fire is a child and the old woman immediately goes to check on the sleeping child wrapped up in rainbow colored blankets, apparently very sick. The woman gets out a pipe with 3 eagle feathers hanging off it and loads it with herbs she has stored in more small leather pouches. She then takes a small piece of the mushroom she soaked in the man’s blood. She lights the pipe and takes a deep hit blowing the smoke under the blanket of the sleeping child then handing the pipe to Dixie. The boy looks at Dixie and motions for her to smoke the pipe and is chuckling. The man smiles and takes the pipe from Dixie as to show his enthusiasm about smoking from the pipe. The old woman laughs and then the child takes a nice long hit as well. The pipe gets handed to Dixie again by the child and she by this time had already decided she was going to take a hit when it got to her. She inhaled the thick bitter smoke and held it until it felt good. By the time she exhaled she was tripping. When she handed the pipe back to the old woman the woman smiled and her smile was made out of cosmic dust. There are dancing patterns of cosmic snakes tangled up in timeless limbo. Her brain the next second is not tripping and everything is as it was, but then when she sees the old woman hit the pipe again she sees the whole surrounding reality get sucked into the pipe and the vertigo returns. Now there is no teepee and no fire,  just a blank screen with her, and the others. Now the sleeping child awakens and the old woman calls for her as she turns around Dixie sees it is her retarded sister as always snot coming out of her nose and a big red sore on the side of her head. “Sissy!” She is scared strait. “Aren’t you glad to see me sissy?” Dixie feels a deep numbness out of shock to her body from disbelief. “I think about you all the time sissy.” Dixie responds to her. She feels so scared, she knows what is going on is impossible, yet she knows it can’t just be a dream or a vision. She is so happy to see that her sister is safe and being taken care of. She can see that the old woman and the man in the headdress will take care of her and nourish her. She feels to as if she is being nourished by them and that the boy who brought her the mushroom was also her son who she aborted. She could feel that the notion was true.  When the smoke hits her lungs it is as if she is like an eagle soring over mountains. She has the sense that even if something isn’t real it is real enough to be imagined.

 

The man in the headdress puts his hand over his heart and bows to Dixie. The old woman ties the medicine bag around Dixie’s waist. She feels as if she is cloaked in magic. The warrior is done and rejoins the fire circle and the drums seem to thump in her heart like the breath of life itself. She feels all the abundance in the universe is hers and she begins to morph in and out of parallel universes walking back towards the vortex where she was sitting by the illuminated tree which she now sees is a portal to other dimensions.

 

As Dixie walks away. “Don’t worry sissy.” Says Dixie’s little sister. “I may be sick, but I’m not blind and never have been. I’ve seen eternity an infinite number of times; I soar with the eagles and hunt rattlesnakes. I was watching over you while I was alive and even before you were born I’ve protected you and now that I’m healing, the old woman watches over us both. I know all of your thoughts and still I love you more than you will ever now during your life.” Her little sister with drool coming out of her mouth and that throbbing blister Dixie still couldn’t help but be disgusted by went on while Dixie listens. “I only look this way to you Dixie. I have to look this way for you. It is what protects you Dixie. Listen to me Sissy. There is magic woo in those yellow mushrooms, sissy and it will nourish the part of you that needs the nourishment. The man’s blood is the key; if you weren’t able to handle it he wouldn’t let you try it. The mixture would kill most others. The only reason it doesn’t kill us is because we need it for our spirit to live on. The old woman is working on special potion, an elixir which will be the antidote to complete the next algorithm. Right now you have been following the wrong path, don’t follow that path, but watch what is going on. The forest will speak to you in its own way. If you need me I will always be in the magic woo. The animals will betray you eventually. They only keep you alive to later feed on you. The sooner you go back to the worms the sooner the birds can eat you. Beware especially of the crow and don’t trust it. You can always trust a vulture though they may be ugly, he never lies. Use the sparrows and the robins, they’re easy to manipulate. There is a trace in each environment that you will see so you can swirl the stigmergy that stirs the elixir we need to heal the spirit. If you have to call upon the serpent expect to repay it when you least want to. I don’t go hunting rattlesnakes unless I have to. Just build on the work that has been done. You think you’re enlightened but you’re not yet sissy. You think you have all the answers, but you don’t.  Everything is in on it Dixie—the animals, the trees, every circumstance and even what you are named at birth is in on it, sissy. Stay on the right side of the magic and pay attention.” Dixie’s sister continued to speak, but Dixie phased her out and soon found herself alone again sitting quietly in the woods with the sun bathing her in warm light no longer in a phantasmagoric state. She still was saying to herself, “I feel so fucking good.” It was like her entire existence had been cleansed and her spirit nourished—she has induced satori bliss, Samadhi bliss, ecstasy of the human spirit—she illuminated and glowing with radiance of cosmic energy as she opens her eyes lying on the ground and sees three Heinous Boys walking her way following her trail and her scent. She is scared and grasps the medicine bag as they approach.

Obstreperous Scintillation

by: (Ty) John Ashley Whitaker

 Part one: Symmetry in Nature

Rising Sun was a gay and vibrant place before B.S. Angel came along. It was a satellite community of the original state capital of Kansas. Every day when B.S. Angel awakens she lies in bed thinking about what lies she will tell that day and who she will tell them to. Her intention isn’t to hurt others, but to help herself get by and she just doesn’t know a better way to go about it. Hark is her landlord and her only friend in the world. At least that's the way B.S. presents it to people they meet while Hark transports her to do her errands. He wants nothing to do with her, she wants everything from him. She fears more than anything, Hark turning on her. Hark is just trying to get rid of her with grace and without being a total asshole. She will take whatever she can, time, money, Hark's hard earned scrap metal he's saving for a rainy day. He thinks he should have known she was crazy much sooner and feels like a fool for letting her move into the house down the hill from him in the sleepy little river town on the muddy banks of the Kaw river. He can't stand to think about her and when he does he gets fired up and punches the air and stomps on the ground. His head starts hurting and he gets acid indigestion. Ever since he met her he is being scorched and tormented. Each day is a new nightmare for Hark, everyday B.S. creates another lie to haunt him, she robs him and laughs while she does it. The day he meets her he notices a hawk following him, for days it screeched at him. It perched on an oak tree right outside his door and tried to warn him. He has been too nice of a guy now and enables her delusions. A day never passes in which he doesn’t wish had listened to the hawk. He knows that something has to change and he knows how to change things quickly for the better. Tomorrow he is going to kill her, then turn the spirit of Life against her. Hark has a katana blade made of hi-carbon steel, it's so sharp it can quietly cut through bone. He has a friend who will help him get rid of the body. Hark wields the knife sparklingly with quiet grace, he is a skilled and trained artisan devoted to the lessons of the blade. He will get up before 4:20 during the quiescent morning to study the Scroll of Emptiness and light a blunt, puffing tea while he stokes the fire in his heat stove. The vanguard of the moment, at the time right before light begins to shine while she walks he will wait for her and take her life when she least expects it. There will be no sound and no one will know because Hark knows the art of assassination—his blade is silent. Hark is also in a crushing mood, his confidence is high in his blade which has never failed him. The killing is the easy part; it’s transforming it back into dust in a timely manner without getting caught which is the challenge. It is the task of total inhalation by which a grand burden is placed.

He wraps up the body in an oily old canvas tarp and puts it in the back of his truck with a topper. He goes home and drinks his coffee and makes a ham, egg and potato burrito before heading up north to wipe the body from existence. He eats breakfast and decides to take a short nap and masturbate twice to some women interested in him on pof.com, he is thinking of emailing one of them, but after having an orgasm he decides he didn't want to. He doesn’t mind keeping his lovers at a distance, preferably cyber-space and feels isolation is better than being smothered with neediness. He decides to drink a beer before leaving north to regain his outlook on life a little bit and gather his thoughts. “Whatever happens today?” He thinks, then thinks further “Is between you me and the fence post.” Hark ponders then loads up a cooler full of natty lights and some beef jerky. He tells the dogs he loves them and kisses the kitty cats on their heads. He then starts up his mini truck and heads towards McSanto farms where he will seek a favor from an old friend. Hark loves leaving his place cruising north through the valley with beautiful hues of light shining off the tallgrass prairie, it makes him feel loved and grateful. When he sees the scenery he feels beautiful because he is surrounded by beauty and he knows he is part of it and it is part of him. He is feeling especially grateful though because he has a dead cunt in the back of his truck and knows he's going to get away with murder.

“It's a good day.” Exclaims Hark to himself while he does 45 on a gravel road no other cars in sight. “Why?, Why is it a good day?...Well, cause I ain't got no more bullshit in my life no more!” He cracks open another natty and lights up one of the doobies he had rolled before he left. “Man, ain't life fucking great!” He smiles and feels nervous for the first time. “Keep yr feet on the ground.” He says to himself. He smokes about half the joint and puts the roach in the ash tray, rolls down both windows and has about an hour drive ahead of him with two stops on the way. The first stop is to pick up some BBQ ribs at Hickory Point then to swing by a liquor store in Pardee, grab a six pack of natty tall boys and a bottle of Powers Irish whiskey. Hark turns on the radio and “Highway to Hell” is playing, he loves old AC/DC and Bon Scott's rugged greasy voice, sings it aloud in his truck and hustles his balls. Right before arriving at Hickory Point he passes the Jefferson county jail and highway patrolman pulls out behind him. Hark never panics, he knows he is going to Chunkie Dunker's BBQ and he is a local anyway. Plus, the only law he is breaking doesn't mean God damn shit to him. Everybody ought to know damn well, he is doing the world a big fucking favor. “I’m not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit today.” He says to himself. He turns up the radio louder and finishes his beer. He turns on his left blinker and negotiates the turn flawlessly. The patrolman goes strait. Hark parks his truck in front of the BBQ joint and grabs his wallet leaving the truck unlocked. It's a nice sunny early winter day and even though there is a little snow on the ground the air is dry and there is a constant breeze. Walking through the door at the same time Hark bumps into another highway patrol man. “Excuse me, young man.” Say's the officer. When Hark looks into his eyes of the man he sees the blackest darkness deadness he has ever seen, he believes he sees death itself. It is indescribable to tell what he saw, but he feels tingles go through his body like he is in the presence of the supernatural. Hark is trying to play it calm and cool, his bones shaking with fear and he feels completely encompassed by the darkness, like a prisoner in time and space. He reacts by saying. “Watch where you're going you old fuck...” The patrolman stunned, Hark in one swift action taking no more than two seconds reached for his katana blade and cleanly cutting the man's head off, it rolls across the sidewalk into a sewer drain. Blood was pooled up right outside the restaurant door and the man's body lay totally motionless in Hark's arms. The man’s name plate reads Officer D.E. Star. “God fucking damn it!, I'm hungry. Why the fuck did I just do that?” The thought rattles around in his skull. Everything happened so fast, Hark never thought twice. He takes the dead weight by the shoulders and huffs and puffs and drags it across the walk to the back of his mini truck and tosses it in with B.S. Looking at the sewer drain, it looked like a vacuum of never ending blackness. “That god damned head could be anywhere, God damn it!” he thinks. Suddenly he felts panic and didn't even think to look if anyone had seen anything until then. On one hand he wants to eat some ribs and take some up to the farm on the other hand he had just killed his second person of the day and there was blood all over him, he has a big knife, blood all over the front door of the building and leading to the back of the truck where there are now two bodies. Even a lazy pig might look into that sort of thing—Hark jumps in the truck and figures the head in the sewer would be okay. No one will ever find it down there. There wasn't much blood because it rolled in there pretty fast after it got a good bounce. “Well, fuck it. I'm just going to stop and get some fried chicken after I get some beer in Pardee.” Hark is angry and disappointed. He had his heart set on pulled pork and ribs. He is somewhat scared of what he saw in D.E. Star’s eyes, it wasn’t like a black hole that sucks in light, it was more like a black star that emanates the negative.

Hark then gets onto the highway and heads north. When he gets out of Hickory Point there are no other vehicles in sight. All of a sudden Hark needs to take a shit. Not like needs to take a shit, but in the process of shitting his seat. He pulls over just north of Hickory Point, opens the door and squats on the side of the road as soon as he gets out of the truck. This is the smelliest shit in the history of shit. He feels like a demon is leaving his body and he feels a sharp pain in his anus. There is the same highway patrolman who was behind him about 10 minutes earlier coming back south right as he finishes his bowel movement. Right as the patrol car passes he sees the light come on and the car turnaround. He was almost unconscious for a moment without any recollection of time. Suddenly, police lights are fast approaching. Then another momentary lapse of time unaccounted for followed by the officer walking up to him. “Buddy you’re bleeding bad.” The officer says. Hark looks down and there is a pool of blood coming from his ass. He has sat on his blade. It was so sharp he couldn't even feel it until the blood began to flow. He withdrew the blade from his anus and in one stroke slicing the throat of the officer. He wrenches in pain and blood is on eyes tints his vision. “God damn mother fucker, God damn mother fucker...”Hark hummed in mantra to withstand the pain. “Who the fuck sits on a God damn knife?” The blood was pretty bad, but mainly just got the ass check. Hark wrapped it up with an old sweatshirt behind his seat was still hell bent on getting some fried chicken and more beer. He grabs an old t-shirt to wipe his ass end. The officer’s body lay lifeless on the side of the road, but he was only five minutes away from town where he could mix in with other traffic and be on his way. Hark gimps over and pick-ups the body and adds it to the other two. “I'm gonna make some money off this nigger. God damn motherfucker rolling up on me when I’m shitting blood. I wish people would just mind their own God damn fucking business.” he thinks. He scrambles to grab another natty and drinks it fast thinking he'll drink two before getting to THC to help take away the pain. He could get out at THC and take a leak, maybe clean up a bit without out anyone noticing too much of what’s going on. Every time Hark finishes a beer he smashes it with his right hand and tosses it behind his seat. After Pardee, Hark still has about another 20 minutes of country driving before getting to Jet McSanto's place where they will get rid of the bodies. The pain is bad, but mixed with the beer it feels kind of soothing to Hark and he can’t help but think as he is rolling into town that he kind of likes the way he feels. He is also thinking about what to order from THC. He knows Jethro would want some fried chicken to and he only has 13 bucks for food. Maybe he will get a couple sandwiches off the dollar menu and order a bucket. He does not know and cannot decide. He really starts to get nervous about what chicken to order. Hark never likes talking to people at fast food restaurants, he feels like he is giving them an inconvenience when he speaks. The last thing he would want to do is trouble someone who makes minimum wage. Hark never likes to talk to too many people and work out business, he pretty much is busy enough with his own bullshit. As he approaches Pardee there is a lot of traffic and as he thought his little truck blended right in. He dives right up to the front door of a small liquor store after crossing some railroad tracks and merging into traffic. After getting a six pack of natty light tall boys he heads down the block to THC still undecided about what to order. The sandwiches are cheap, but Hark has been reading about how bad modern grain is for the human body and he knows if he reads it on the internet it has to be true. On top of that he is hungry for meat and cartilage. It would be grain fed chickens that where genetically modified, but at least it wasn't white bread. One of his new year’s resolutions is to eat a little better. He came to this goal after realizing that if money was no issue and success was his all that would matter at that point in life was his health not only physically, but mentally and spiritually. He thought to be proactive—he would start getting healthy immediately. He decides to go in and order since the drive through person would be able to see the dead cop in the back of the truck. He parks out away from the store and goes inside with his 13 bucks. When he walks in he sees only one person eating at a table by himself. He slips into the restroom quietly and is the only one in there. He quickly cleans the blood of himself and turns his shirt inside out. The only blood visible now is on his jeans and shoes. There wasn’t anything he could do about it so he just took a piss and walked out to order some chicken. The clerk immediately asks him for his order. “Umm, ughh.” he mumbles. “I'll take that bucket of chicken for 9.99.” Hark orders. “Okay sir, would you like that original, grilled or extra crispy?” Hark orders, extra crispy and nothing else. He is so glad that part is over. He hands over the money and gets his change. Now coming through the door are two city cops. Hark knows they are just coming into eat, he feels like he is in a good position and doesn't look suspicious aside from all the blood on his jeans. He stands alongside the trash can to wait for his order, nervous and his palms are sweating. The cops are busy looking at the menu and thinking over what they are going to have for lunch not noticing Hark’s blood stained pants when Hark grabs his order and quietly walks out the door.

Now Hark is driving north and cruising a smooth 55 miles an hour on country roads. He feels he is as good as there. He eats two drumsticks and two thighs, Hark always prefers the dark meat and hopes Jet won’t mind too much then washes it all down with an ice cold natty. He drinks about half the natty and lights up the rest of the doobie from before. He is about 10 minutes to his destination, crossing through the glacial hills of north Kansas. He is looking at old farmsteads and fields full of dead corn stalks and stacks of hay bales the sky is blue and cloudy the wind blowing pretty strong and he thinks to himself. “This looks like heaven.” The tea he is smoking is really strong and he is feeling the alcohol start to work. He decides to also take a belt of Powers. As he turns to go down the little gravel road leading to McSanto farms there is the old cold brick Catholic church on the right side and a grave yard. Jethro lives about a quarter mile down the road from the church then his nearest neighbor is about two miles away. No one is at the church that day the only movement he sees is Jethro’s dog, Harper is running up to his truck as he is parking next to Jet's indigo Hudson Hornet. The wind is really strong when Hark steps out of his truck and takes his beers, chicken bucket and also his pre-rolled doobies. He walks through the entry way of Jethro's old farm house and can immediately smell stale cigarette smoke and rotting trash. When he takes his first step in he hears dog food crunching between his shoes and the floor. It sounds loud in the quiet house. It's warm when he walks inside and all is still and silent accept for the corn puffs that are being smashed on the kitchen floor as he is walking through. There are dirty dishes piled in the sink, empty soda cans and cans full of cigarette butts, every inch of the house is covered in some sort of trash, half-finished fast food hamburgers, smashed up magazines, books and cloths scattered. In the corner of the kitchen is a strip of bug tape hanging from the ceiling with enough bugs to feed a frog farm for a week. Hark has to clear out a spot on the kitchen table to rest the chicken bucket after he tosses the beers in the almost empty freezer. He lights up a doobie and goes into the room where his old friend Jet McSanto is sleeping. He begins to blow smoke on his sleeping friend and singing softly, “Wake up, wake up...” Jet lets out a sigh of relief and opens his eyes and reaches for the doobie. He takes a long puff and deeply inhales, coughing loudly as he hands the doobie back. “Good morning, good morning, holy shit, what time is it?” Jethro says. “Wakie, bakie tiz-ime.” Hark replied. “That is some tasty tea. What’s it called?” asks Jet. “Its name is the Obstreperous Scintillation.” The both laughed a second. McSanto was still naked under his blankets and asked, “Hey man can you toss me that bottle of Powers.” “Sure man, I have a new one in the truck to I just picked up, so finish this one.” “Jet took a belt of what was left in the bottle, which was maybe only about three shots. “Hell yhea!” Jet Exclaims. “What a good way to start the day, good to see you bro.” adds Jet, then Hark say's “I brought THC to, extra crispy in the kitchen.” “Fucking A, I'm ready for some breakfast.” Jet jumps out of bed while Hark walks into the kitchen. “I ate most the dark meat.” Hark admits. “It’s cool.” Jet responds then puts on some overalls with no underpants and no shirt and slips on some boots with no socks. He lights up a cigarette and lets out a rigorous cough. He has his cigarette in one hand and a chicken breast in the other. Hark reaches in the freezer and cracks a beer. He was glad he ate in the car, he didn't know if he could have eaten in Jet’s kitchen which had a large trash can that smelled of rotting meat and a pan full of rancid grease on the stove filled with gnats and flies. “Well Jet, I need to get rid of some bodies man.” Jet looks serious, but not too surprised. “How many?” Jet asks. “Three minus one nigger cop and one head. It rolled in the sewer. I also cut my ass, but not too bad, but if you got some pants I can where that would be prima.” Hark replies and Jet points to a laundry basket and say's “Any of those jeans there bud.” “Cool, man. Yhea, I had to deal with some bullshit today. It's been a long day already and I've been trying to get drunk and high. I feel like I'm a third of the way. That trifling scrap-heap scalawag had me all fucked-up.” Hark was changing pants. He turns his ass cheek towards Jet and asks. “Does it look bad?” “Oh' you'll live, want some peroxide?” Asks Jet while going for it at the same time and then adds, “here I'll just pour some on the wound”. Hark gets his shoes back on and Jet tosses on a shirt over his overalls and they both walk outside. The sky is starting to get dark and a storm is rolling in from the west. McSanto farms is high up on a gently rolling hill and when you're there is seems like you're on top of the planet earth. The only thing in sight besides farm land is the Catholic Church and the grave yard. Hark first gets in the cab and unscrews the bottle of Powers takes a swig and passes it to Jet who takes a double swig. Hark opens up the back of the camper shell and shows Jet the bodies. “Man we need to call up ol' Maxwell O’Neil about that nigger, we can make some fat cash off that man. Hell if I do say so myself, that is a good looking nigger.” Jethro says. “I texted Maxwell about a half hour ago, he is on his way.” Says Hark. “ It's about to storm, Jet. A good time to have a tire burning party don't you think?” “Perfect timing” Jet says, he then adds, “You gotta another doob?” “Ready to go, let's roll” They hop into Hark's truck and ride down through a huge crop field.

Within about 300 feet they are no longer visible from the remote road, they go deep into a valley through an old cow pasture and come up on a bone yard littered with old cow bones and this whole time Jet's dog Harper was running alongside the truck. After passing through the mess of bones they come upon a dumpsite rumored to have once been a resort known as Eagle Springs. There are old kitchen appliances, asphalt shingles, tires, swing sets, rusted cars and mangled hedge woods. Most of all what stands out is all the teevees that have been shot up with 12 gage double ought and high powered rifles. There are piles of mangled up metal that have been shot to oblivion. They get out of the truck and start looking around for a nice pit to have fire hot enough to destroy the bodies. They find a low spot about nine feet from the dump site and stack hedge limbs in it. They stack hedge limbs up to the top of the pit which is about 11 feet wide and three feet deep in the middle. Then Hark backs up his truck to the pile of limbs. One by one they pull the bodies out to the car, leaving B.S. wrapped up in the oily tarp and tossing her cunty carcass in the pit. They take the headless cop off and Jethro pulls a bowie knife from his boot, cuts off the man’s forearm and gives it to Harper. They take the other cop and lay him to the side. “Damn I forgot to bring gas.” Said Jet. “No worries, I have some WD40” Replied Hark. Hark then gets a small bunch of small twigs and places them on the edge of the pile of limbs. He then sprays it with WD40, then sprays it around the whole pit. He pulls his truck away about 33 feet. By now it was starting to sprinkle and the wind is picking up. Jet is over by the dump pile pulling out old tractor tires to put on the fire. Hark uses his lighter to light the small bunch of twigs and they take off as soon as he lights it, then the rest of the WD40 made a ring of fire around the pit. As it was burning Hark is spraying the rest of the WD40 on the fire then tossed the can on to. He then adds some more small twigs on top to the twigs he just lit. He has started the fire just about nine minutes before it really starts to rain. He and Jet gather three tires and toss them all on the fire as the bodies ooze and hiss. The rain begins to really pick-up and Jet and Hark take shelter in the truck. Hark lights up a doob and takes another belt from the bottle of Powers. The sky is as dark as can be and the rain is staying steady as the fire begins to blaze with a magnificent intensity and thick black smoke mixing right into the dark stormy sky. “We ought to make a run out there again and throw some more tires on there you think, Jet?” Asks Hark. “May as well get that fire as hot as we can” Replies Jethro. “Let's finish this doobie first. Then make a run for it.” Says Hark. They sit and smoke and are already about halfway done with the bottle of Powers. “Man it feels good to get this bullshit cleaned up.” says Hark then he adds, “That is pure evil burning in that fire right there.” Jet sat thinking then says, “As soon as you told me she was an old Hell's Angel biker whore, I knew we would end up here with her. I've seen it so many times those fucking sluts go through life getting everything for free. When they’re young their pussy gets them a lot, but when they're older they just are a dead weight on society. You’re a saint and a good man, Hark. I'm glad were bros.” “Thanks man, I really just was at my breaking point, a man can only put up with so much bullshit. Next time I meet someone like her I'm just going to slice her up right of the bat and save myself some time and anguish. Life is too short to fuck with people’s bullshit. I wish I would have brought that bucket of chicken with us.” They sit and talk awhile and the rain starts to slow down a bit, the wind is still roaring and the fire still has plenty of hot fuel from the rubber. “Okay, Jet lets mix some more hedge and tires together and really get drunk.” They get out of the truck start tossing tires and hedge wood into the blazing fire while black smoke continues to mix right into the stormy air. They work on it in the rain for about five minutes in silence until they finish. They get back in the truck and catch their breath. “That is going to be one hot mother fucker in about two minutes, Hark. I want to sit here and watch it for a minute.” Said Jet as he cracks the window and lights another cigarette. “I'm perfectly comfy right here, man this is perfect timing.” Says Hark. Hedge hissed and popped as the fire really began to roar. It was a good thing most people would be inside their houses otherwise the fire and cloud of black smoke would be seen for miles also the stench of burning rubber. Hark and Jet knew those tires would be burning all night and into the next day if it wasn't for the downpour. There would be no trace of this fire come dawn. Jet and Hark would just fire up the old massy Ferguson tractor and cover it up with some dirt and manure, they'd scatter some debris around it and no one would ever notice a thing for at least 99 years. They didn't know for sure if the fire destroys everything, but they knew there wasn't much left after a fire that hot. Hark steps out of his truck as the rain begins to slow down and wind gusts. He hustles his balls, unzips his pants and takes a leak. Jet follows suit. Then Hark opens another beer while he also takes his empty cans and throws each one in the fire, watching them melt in seconds. Right now was a fantastic site, not many people ever see a fire burn like this one.

Just to think three murders had been committed that day that no one would ever know about. The rain continues to come down softer and softer, but those tires just keep burning as hot as hell and that hedge kept popping like roman candles in the darkness. Jet and Hark continue to toss limbs on the fire every once in a while. It was still only about three o'clock in the afternoon, but the sky was already almost black as the cold rain kept on coming down in a fine mist. It seems like the whole time they were focusing on the fire time was irrelevant, hunger was not there and everything seems obsolete to them. It seems like an eternity to Hark that he’s had a belt of Powers when out of habit he reaches for the bottle, still about halfway done he takes a nice glug and hands the bottle to Jet. Jet takes a swig and screwed the cap back on. “You gotta another doob, Hark?” “Of course I do, wait...no, but... I got a blunt.” “Even better” Says Jet. Hark adds “Man, this is the shit. We are sitting here like the old days, just watching the fire and about to make some fat bank off a fat black dead ass pig cop. Want to get out and feel the heat while we smoke this blunt?” Jet replied, “Let’s do it, I'm just about half drunk.” The two of them step out of the truck with the lit blunt going approach the fire, standing in front of the intense heat. “That fucking cunt is history, thank baby Jesus!” Hark says with a smile then adds, “Thank you brother McSanto, my life is now free of bullshit. I feel like I see the light, I am saved and liberated. Once again a happy man” Jet grins and says, “You're welcome Hark, anytime.” “What’s out here besides us anyway Jet?” Jet responds, “Well, besides this fire going which will be out soon and maybe a few hibernating rattlesnakes, it's just you me and the fence post. Hark then replies, “That's just the way I like it Jet. But them rattlesnakes can just keep on hibernating as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like them motherfuckers one bit.” “Don’t worry Hark, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” Jet says. Hark says, “I know that’s fucking right.” He grasps his katana knife. “You’re more likely to die of getting toppled over in a land slide than get killed by a rattlesnake our here.” Jet responds. “I suppose yr right I ought not to be so afraid of serpents, I guess?” Hark goes on and then adds, “Man, I’ve been thinking a lot about the spirit of Life, spiritually and metaphysics. I’ve been really inspired and feel really alive right now. I cut down that bitch B.S. and I knew that headless cop because had to get cut down, but that nigger just pissed me off. I probably shouldn’t have killed that guy, but since I did I got to make it worth it, I guess?”

Part two: The spirit of Life doesn’t always have yr back

Jet and Hark are drinking and smoking while Harper is on his haunches under a cedar tree and has got the arm Jet have him down to one long bone that he is still chewing on. Then out of the dark stillness they see head lights. They know who it is and soon Maxwell O’Neil pulls up in his covered in mud 1990 Mercedes Benz. He has three people with him, one old skinny white guy with a classy old fashion snap brim hat—it looks kind of like a magic hat he also has a suit on and two middle aged Asian males are also with him. Maxwell exits the car and approaches Jet and Hark. He is about 6 feet tall 240 lbs. and wearing a leather suit that is tight on him, the pants are short like high waters and he is wearing white socks and shoes made out of recycled tires. He has on a big silver watch that that twinkles in the light from the flame. Underneath his leather coat he is wearing a t-shirt with a graphic of the Persian coat of arms, a golden lion holding a sword with the rising sun in the background. Maxwell has about half a head of hair even though he is about 35 years old. He doesn't look old except for being almost bald. He looks like a football player or throwback wrester. He is big, muscular and mean looking, he is all business. At the same time he is kind of goofy and mostly smiling. “Hey fella's, you got a belt of Powers for a proud lion on a cold rainy night?” Asks Maxwell as he and his associates are now standing in front of Jet and Hark, the two Asians where dressed in strange cloths. One is wearing a monks robe and the other was wearing a suit top with a dress shirt and tie and instead of pants had on transparent shorts like a giant condom that covers his whole mid-section from around his waist to his knees. It is clear that the man's penis was erect, a trifling specimen, only about three inches long while fully erect and looked like a nipple inside of the latex sex shorts. He has a 44 magnum on his hip in a holster. When Hark sees this he thinks of the art of swordlessness, that gun was his gun as far as he was concerned and he thought to himself, “The bigger the gun the smaller the dick.” It was also obvious the man had ejaculated in the condom shorts. They had a logo on the side that reads, “Doctor Bake's Sex Shorts”. “Who the fuck dressed you faggots?” Asks Hark. “Nice shorts!” Jet exclaims. “This is genuine leather motherfucker! Check out this fucking watch. I’m selling these motherfuckers on eBay. You guys wanna buy a watch?” says Maxwell. Then adds “What the fuck are you guys wearing? You look like a couple crazy honky-rednecks. Where's the nigger?, I need to make some money off these freaks I brought with me.” whispers Maxwell to Hark. “Come, follow me” says Hark. They walk around the truck and laying on the other side is the cop Hark murdered. Maxwell looks him over and looks at his name badge which reads, “Sergeant Venerate”. “Tell you what I'll pay you 50 bucks for this one. I’m gonna get 50 bucks a piece from these faggots and you make 50.” Maxwell says. “Done deal.” says Hark. Hark takes a 50 dollar bill from Maxwell and Maxwell motions for his guests.

As they are approaching, the old man say's “Let’s just get this straight what I'm paying for. I want fourth in line.” Maxwell was stunned. “But there is only 3 of you flaming faggots.” says Maxwell. “I want to be forth. If I'm not forth I'm not interested and pay nothing at all.” the old man reinforces. The old man then adds, “I will pay an extra 500 dollars in gold to whoever wants to be third in line. Maxwell, Hark and Jet look at each other in disbelief, Harper growls and savors his raw meaty bone. “I ain't fucking no dead nigger’s ass for a small nickel.” Hark exclaims. “Five hundred?” ponders Maxwell while Jet smirks as he is writing something in his little notebook. “Hold on here old man.” adds Hark. “I have an offer for you. In fact, how about I make all the offers and you tell me yes or no.” Hark unleashes his katana blade and tries to strike the old man, but the old man disappears. “Where did that motherfucker go?” yells Maxwell. Hark never looks excited or nervous he just holds his blade, moving it in a steady rhythmus. “Man I’ve done worse for money. I’ll fuck this dead nigger. I don’t give a fuck. I’m leaving this field tonight with shit on my dick and money on my hip!” says Maxwell. The old man reappears like an apparition only about 10 feet away. Hark is keen and alert. The old man says, “I thought one of you might have a change of heart.” “Put down your blade, Hark. We got a deal made. I don’t give a fuck man. I need the money.” Maxwell says. Hark responds, “Not only are you a fucking faggot, you’re a faggot that is also a nigger lover and a necrophiliac who runs a peep show for creepy old men.” “I’m not really into this. Please don’t tell anyone. I really need the money and this old man means business. Look at what he just did. He has supernatural abilities. I’ve seen him turn things into gold and I need that gold man.” Jet joins the conversation after watching the old man begin to hop around the fire like a frog, repeating to himself, “ribit, ribit”. “How are you going to get it up if you’re not turned on?” Jet questions Maxwell. “I’ll just think about pussy.” Answers Max. “Don’t deny yr natural urges is all I have to say” Jet laughs. Hark can’t help but think the old man looks awfully familiar to him, but he can’t remember where. He almost thinks he’s had dreams about the man before, but only remembers him when he is in the dream state. “Let’s get this show started then. Stretch that asshole out for me big fella, I have yr gold right here” Says the old man “I hope you don’t mind if I have a few guests.” Then a giant boulder falls from the sky and smashes into the dirt in front of them. Appearing out of thin air are three naked men. They have a shroud of mystery emanating from their bodies, like angelic creatures from the golden eternity. The old man comes out of his frog stance, walking towards the naked men. “It sure is nice to see you fellas. It’s a cold night aren’t you cold?” asks the old man. “Not with that fire going old friend, who do you have here?” One of the naked men says. He is pale with a hairy chest, bald on top with curly long black hair on the sides and back of his head and a curly black beard. One of the other naked men who is also a white guy, but clean shaven and handsome with nice combed black hair says, “I wish you faggots wouldn’t bring me along for this gay shit.” The other naked man is lean and muscular with a chiseled face and blond hair. Behind Hark’s truck one of the Asian men is butt fucking the dead corpse while the other man is watching from about 4 feet away, fingering his own asshole and masturbating. Each of them was wearing Dr. Bake’s Sex Shorts. The men are both frosty eyed and completely indulging in the sexual desire of the moment—everything becomes silent and everyone is watching as the man with his penis up the dead man’s ass begins to moan and then in a thick Asian accent began to say “I like Martin Luther King Jr. Civil rights activist—I fucking for God. Stupid American crap-hatch whore.” He repeats “I fucking for God” several times as he squeezes every last pleasure sensation out of his orgasm. He then slowed down and shortened his humping strokes—his voice begins to crack and he bites down on his thumb as he is totally spent with his eyes glazed with bliss. The other man moves in as soon as the first man lies down beside the truck in the wet green prairie grass. He slowly inserts his tiny penis into the dead man’s ass and begins to hump in short little Mickey Mouse strokes, moaning and his voice cracking with pleasure. “By gay shit sir, do you mean gaiety or gayness of the anus? This is by far a mixture of both.” “Did you say frothy broth?” Hark laughs then Jet adds, “You mean Rick Santorum?” The naked men all smile at each other. Everyone laughs together. “It may be gaiety for you dirty faggots, but I just come along for the booze and smoke, you degenerates can kiss my heterosexual ass.” “You know we would.” The naked men joke with each other. “You’re next Maxwell, you got your sex shorts on?” asks Hark. “I wasn’t planning on having any sex, I came to pimp.” Maxwell says. “Well, you better not bare bone that dead nigger unless you want your dick to fall off, pimp. He just got fucked by two of the most fucked up freaks I’ve ever seen.” Jethro says. “I got a plastic grocery sack behind my seat you can use.” Says Hark. “A fucking grocery sack for a condom” Shouts Maxwell. “Hey man just double-wrap it.” Jethro says. “I’ve done it before on some whores in Mexico. I’m healthy.” “He is almost done Maxwell, you better get naked and get it up.” Shouts Hark. “I don’t want you guys watching.” Max says. “We already seen about as much fucked-up shit as we can see in one night, seeing you get gay ain’t going to make any difference at this point.” Says Hark. Both Asian men where now laying on the ground, totally spent and completely relaxed looking up at the dark solemn sky.

Max snags the grocery sack from Hark’s hands, hustles his balls and walks over towards the dead body which is lying face down on the ground, his metal name badge now lying in the mud. Maxwell drops his pants and closes his eyes, placing the plastic grocery sack around his penis twice. His penis was rock hard and about five inches long, but full of girth. “Well glad you didn’t have much problem getting hard, Maxwell.” Hark taunts Max. Max rolls his eyes and says, “Don’t fucking tell anyone, dude. I need the fucking money.” The old man and his naked friends gather around closely to watch. The clean cut naked guy who is now sipping out of wine bottle say’s did this faggot put you up to this?” pointing at the old man. “He says he will give me five hundred bucks to go third, he wants only to go forth.” Maxwell says. “Why do you suppose that is?” asks the naked man, chuckling. Maxwell looked at him confused and says. “I guess he is a degenerate fuck.” “No doubt about that.” The naked man laughs. Maxwell’s boner is starting to go down. One of the other naked men who is muscular with blond radiant hair points at his pecker and says. “You better do something about that or I might have to go third and collect the reward myself.” Maxwell closes his eyes and tries to get his penis hard again. “Are you thinking about that retarded bitch you used to fuck?” jokes Hark. “Shut the fuck up dude. I just want to get this over with.” Maxwell’s penis is about half hard when he tries to jam it in the dead man’s ass. It bends like a broken chic-o-stick inside the plastic bag. “There you go forth now.” Maxwell points to the old man. “That’s not worth 500 bucks, I want to see you pound that dead nigger with a hard cock until you have an orgasm.” Says the old man. “How about you try out my orgone accumulator?” A wooden box appears on top of the boulder which fell from the sky, it has a wooden chair inside it, the inside is lined with stainless steel “Go ahead, my boy, get inside”. Max reluctantly goes inside the box and the old man say’s to him, “Give it just a few minutes, my boy, you’ll be hard as stone.” Max sits in the orgone accumulator for several minutes, it is just a box with a chair inside with no openings, Maxwell begins to get excited then the old man opens the door and Max looks like a vibrant new man. Suddenly a beautiful naked woman appears, walking up to Maxwell and caressing his penis which instantly was rock hard. She begins to kiss him and whispers in his ear. “Go ahead and fuck the man now.” “Who are you?” Max questions the woman. “I’m your siren fluff girl you dream about in your deepest sleep.” She says as she gazes into his eyes and he seems to be in a hypnotic trance.

He begins to copulate with the dead man, penetrating his hard penis which was wrapped inside the plastic grocery sack into the man’s dead ass. The dead man began to bleed from his asshole and a stream of bright red blood runs down his chocolate colored leg. The white plastic bag is covered with shit and blood. You can hear his pelvis slapping against his ass cheeks. All is quiet while he pumps his pulsating cock in the lifeless ass. He looks like a mad lion as he spews his semen into the bloody plastic bag. All the time keeping his hands on the breasts of the naked woman and licking her neck and kissing her. Hark was born and raised in a racist family and taught to hate the black man for no good reason, but just because. He never really thought about it much or questioned it. He always referred to blacks as niggers and really didn’t like the way they smell or look, but especially he hates how loud and boastful they seemed to him in public. He thought all blacks were rude and dumb degenerate assholes—but when he saw Maxwell ramming this handsome dead man’s ass and blood coming out the man’s mouth—he saw something disgusting going on and felt sad he had called the man a nigger so many times, sad that he thought of the man as a degenerate for no good reason. The two perverted Asians, the creepy old man and Maxwell humping away with his head of sheep’s wool—they all looked like barbaric animals—they were—and it was he who put this whole display together—all this mess was his doing. Maxwell continues to kiss the woman and closes his eyes as he is having the orgasm. He opens his eyes when he finishes and sees that he is kissing one of the naked men who had temporarily transformed into the beautiful women. He spits and wipes his mouth as if he can remove the kissing and licking. He is shocked and yell’s, “You fucking faggots. I will goddamn throw all of you in that fucking fire. I want my gold!” “Hold on there boy, now we made a deal and I’m going to honor it. I enjoyed what you just did and I think you have his asshole stretched out just enough for me. Now I am plenty horney and don’t need any Viagra.” The old man says. He takes the shinny gold coin and places it in Maxwell’s hand. “Who are you’re friends anyway? Where did they come from?” Maxwell asks. “Don’t worry about that.” Says the old man as he walks away hustling his balls and unzips his light grey slacks, releasing from his pants a six foot long penis with the blunt head of a snake and the distinct diamond pattern of a rattlesnake. “Have you heard of the Moche culture, my boy?” He says to Hark. “If one wants to have communion with dead. This is way, my boy.” The snake penis slithered into the dead man’s ass, moved through his body and stuck it’s head out the man’s mouth. The dead man suddenly was no longer dead. He opened his eyes and had the rattlesnake head protruding from his mouth stuck out its tongue and hissed.

The old man is in ecstatic pleasure with his snake penis connecting him to the dead man and protruding through him. “I have unfinished business with death. It’s not about the orgasm at my age, my boy. It’s about the pleasure in getting one, you see? ” The old man says. The fire was so hot the flame was ice blue. The man’s eyes opened looking at Hark with disapproval and his voice choked by the rattlesnake dick says. “Tell your friend to throw the pages in the fire.” Hark couldn’t believe his eyes, the Asian men where in the backseat of Maxwell’s car, they had both shit themselves inside their sex shorts, they both where sucking on their thumbs and praying that Maxwell would start up his car and leave. The black man looked over to Maxwell and the Asian men who had raped him and looked at Hark who had killed him. Jethro was finishing off the bottle of Powers and scribbling in a notebook with a pencil. “Whataya writing Jethro?” asks Maxwell. Hark looks on in terror. Sgt. Venerate say’s again, “Throw the pages in the fire.” Then in his most skillful strike he thinks he had ever made as a bladesmen Hark removes the head of the snake, spins and then in the same motion cuts Venerate in half from his head down through his asshole. In the process he also cuts the rattlesnake body long way in perfect halves stopping right before the old man’s body. The old man is not fazed by the injury to his penis. He stands in silent meditation as each half of the snake penis takes form in to a snake of its own, each with two heads. The rattlesnake head rolls towards Hark, lifeless, but within the darkness of its beaded eyes is the all-encompassing and advancing tenebrous rays of unshine. Jethro runs up to the rattlesnake head kicking the snake head into the fire. He holds up his notebook and say’s “I’m not ashamed of it—or embarrassed by it.” He tucks his notebook under his overalls and tosses Sgt. Venerate into the fire one half at a time. As each half is tossed to the flames it transforms into a snake and hisses as it is disintegrated. “Venerate was made for the fire, he died just as he should have and will disappear into the darkness” Says Jet. It is the moment called the twilight when the crepuscule is on the march. The old man still stands still with the snakes now winding around each other. Hark says, “What’s yr name old man?” The old man says nothing, just continues to meditate. The man with the curly beard and long black hair hasn’t said much this whole time, who is writing like Jet with a pencil in a small pad looks up and speaks. “Surely you know about the Dark Energy Star and the dying sun? All light is owned by it. He who is death owns life and he who is the darkness is the wielder of the mighty sword of light. Emptiness owns the Universe. When you know the scroll of Emptiness as your true nature you will clearly see this.” The naked man then went on in poetic verse for a while. Hark seemed to slip in and out of ecstasy of the mind and joy of the spirit. He is having visions of snakelike vertigo in the horizon. Single stars seem to flicker at him while meteors flash through the sea of dancing kaleidoscopic serpentine patterns. Hark thinks, “A star within a star, a dream about a dream and a story about a story.”

Then Hark is awakened by Jet. “Get up man, the fire has burned out. We need to get more whisky up at the house.” Hark gets up in a drunken daze and Jethro drives his truck off for him while he watches from the passenger’s seat the last of the smoke is seeping from the ashes then he turns to the sunrise up ahead where the sun blinds them both and they run into a fence post, Hark’s truck slides on the mud and caused the ground to give way, sending the truck 20ft down in and avalanche of mud. Jet’s body is instantly crushed and Hark’s legs are both broken. Hark pulls himself up with an old limb and tries to crawl up the ravine. He gets to the top of the truck where he can regain a little strength and crawl all the way out when he sees a mass of awakened rattlesnakes from their den, they all begin to strike. Then the crushed gas tank on the truck catches fire and the there is an enormous explosion that no one ever knows about. Hark and Jet die in a mud pile full of rattlesnakes and the whole thing burns for hours. There is so much trash and rumble out there at the country dumpsite that no one ever notices what was left of their bones and Hark’s truck just mixed in with the rest of the junk out there. They get washed around the creek, mostly getting buried under piles of old building materials and appliances. It doesn’t matter that Hark and Jet never got the tractor and covered the fire with dirt. No one ever notices anything different about the place, it was like it never happened. There is nothing out there of any interest to any one just and old dump site and a row of fence posts. Maybe someday someone might find Sgt. Venerate’s name badge that’s now buried 3 inches in the dirt and look into to it, but the chances I would say are fairly slim. That is not to say that stranger things haven’t happened. Hark wasn’t the only person to disappear from Rising Sun, it is now an abandoned town, just like Eagle Springs and joins the dark matter in the ever diming universe towards never ending emptiness, loneness and the blackness of what is nothing from which everything emerges. To create, one must start with nothing and in the art of destruction must have a steady supply of bullshit to operate smoothly. The end.

most recent rattlesnake dance

Nightlight was bright. The moon half full and things looked sharp. The boys where drinking rum and cider while the dogs silently dreamed about barking at the moon which was hanging low that night. The trees all stood firm on the hill and the cabin steady with smoke coming out the chimney stood still. This was the time of Jesus the Messiah and during this time of year was always this way...the light gleamed like this on everything.

Josiah was cool. Calm, collected. Just as They warned him he should be. He'd gotten in on the bottom floor, feigned unawareness and optimism, and allowed Them to believe that Them had driven him towards Them's beliefs, Them's prerogatives. He was a spy, and a trusted man. A man of two masters, and while he would follow one, he'd be obedient to the other. Unquestioning. Loyal. How could he love one and follow another?

Polly was a beauty and Josiah was naturally the one she was attracted to. He was a disciplined man, but nature has a way of whipping even the disciplined and Josiah was no exception. Within two months of meeting they fell in love, within four months, they was having babies and it wasn't soon after that the call came from the federal office. They were in trouble. They were fucked. How did the shit hit the fan so fast? How could things go so bad? Well. Fuck fuck fuck.

Josiah had feigned his existence for so long that it had become a rule, and not a desire. Polly was a natural conclusion: She would have been the next obvious evolution to his charade; she was, to all outsiders, most likely to get pregnant and, though his mission was to be completed while he carried on in what all others might consider to be “normal” - “mundane”, even – he was not yet done with his mission. Despite his guidance, he was in love.

Morbid, as twisted as it may seem this only left Josiah to think love meant death. To Josiah if he couldn't have her, neither could the government. So he went on the way he went, towards death and destruction. “Polly, I love you more than anything in the whole wide world. I think you are the greatest thing that was ever created in the universe.” He paused and looked at Polly and Polly looked at him. Then Polly stabbed him with a dagger in the kidney. Suddenly there was chaos and dogs were barking and the the sun went dark. The fight was on: Good and evil, chaos and order.

Body of Lacquer & Paste

Sitting at a picnic table my Granddad built looking out over Rattlesnake Hill. Dr. Sigmund Rose is sitting on the table top—so is my beer can. I'm thinking about a book I'm reading right now that a friend I met on Facebook, through a doctor who has a book about killing about the top 1500 richest people in the world, eating them and dividing up all their assets around the globe so that humans can live on http://www.korporatekannibalkookbook.com/. I read another one of his books before called, Radical Honesty about 38 months ago http://www.radicalhonesty.com/. I was horrified with some of the ideas in book the whole time I read it, but I kept reading—I did it anyway. I read the book very closely, then I read another book closely that had nothing to do with it about Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation, Desolate Angel by Dennis McNally. I read this by recommendation of the legendary Jean-Von Pierre who is the main character in my story called, A Ride with a Hipster. I then read Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky and I immediately documented Notes from Rattlesnake Hill which A Ride with a Hipster is part of. After I wrote the book I began to read it and decided I would contact the author of Radical Honesty, Brad Blanton and see how he could help me out. I figured he had helped get me this far...and unlike Jack Kerouac he was still alive, I invited him to read my book. I told him how his own work was an inspiration behind it. That was October 2009. Since then we’ve corresponded a few times and I sent him some 10 or so page radical extremist emails…so eventually he does what most people do in this situation, he passes me off to someone they hire to handle people like me. I wasn’t much longer before I got a personal visit from the CEO of Radical Honesty and the rest is history. But the book he told me to read in order to start my Lit Generation cult I eventually want to start was called The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. I of course have known how to convert lead into gold for many years (“its redneck knowledge” is what the guy who taught me said, we meet when he was on work release) so I decided to read the book hoping to find another way—like one that might be legal. Every tree seems to be smiling at me, maybe laughing too—The birds are quiet, quieter than the bugs are. Just a minute ago I was standing next to my truck, minding my own business, talking to myself when a bug flew and hit my upper lip. I was shocked. I have a vision of a giant wasp darting at me and stinging me. I shake it off after thinking about maybe posting something about it on facebook. People seem to like is when I give them the simple and honest details of my life on Rattlesnake Hill. It’s hard for me to describe my life as other people have described in popular terms. Instead I have to use symbols, pictures and emotions to make my point. The main reason for that is because since my life is never on schedule I don’t have routines to file into categories, except for the obvious ones like smoking tea, drinking and incessant thoughts of sex. Even a category as simple as “work” for instance becomes complex with little time and momentum—even as I thought about momentum that bug that I convinced myself wasn’t a wasp was a wasp, I was in denial about the matter. It tried it again, but this time I killed it. I like killing wasps, especially since Mike Lewinski (author of the blog Ontological Anarchy http://www.wildernessvagabonds.com/ ) told me about how parasitic wasps impregnate their larvae into other caterpillars which nourishes its development first by feeding off its non-vital parts. Then the larvae eat their way out of the caterpillar. Eventually the wasp larvae take over the caterpillar’s mind and turn it into a zombie.



Now I am going to kill all those sick fuckers. I just hope that doesn’t cause them to evolve even bigger. But if you think about it they are just like those very few, only 1500 people who are feeding off the rest of us, taking our labor, our money and our lives. I’m not talking about the abstract “so-called rich people” talked about by propaganda experts. I’m talking about specific people who can be pin-pointed and addressed and held accountable for what they are doing to the world. The elites who control the world and its popular culture are killing us from the inside, by deadening our culture and brainwashing people into killing themselves while they make a profit off of it. Are people’s interests in this country really much different from one another? Saint Mook is sitting over on the deck with the answer. Dogs have all the answers—its good they can’t talk…otherwise they couldn’t show them to us. A small hickory tree grows about 10 feet away from me that I thought was headed towards being a fag after it got burned in one of my famous fires, but a going two seasons it has reestablished itself and regained its connection to the sun. I use this word fag with emphasis for a special reason. I live not 30 miles from Westboro Baptist Church where the infamous Fred Phelps preaches from the pulpit.

Of all the topics in America right now at a social level this fag issue is at the front line of the debates. Phelps has pressed the issue that “God hates Fags” and I wish to explore the issue further. In contrast I live also not 30 miles in the opposite direction to the former home of the deceased and still influencing literary force of William S. Burroughs. This famous fag Genius in which God apparently places a blessing also brings
this fag issue to the forefront. So I have a famous fag to the east on my left from where I type and a famous fag hater to the west on my right. You may think I live in a fag vortex. Kansas is and always has been a center of controversy throughout history and is now the center of the fag issue.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brown_v._Board_of_Education

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bleeding_Kansas

Anytime society shifts Kansas most likely has much to do with it. Even before white people found Kansas, the ancient Waokans (who I talk about in Notes from Rattlesnake Hill) lived and breathed in Kansas. They do live, they live at another dimension we can’t see—they live among the ghost trees in the Valley of Echoes. I know their language and they taught me what a fag is. It’s easy for me to see now. Marriage has nothing to do with approval, it has nothing to do with government authority or having a relationship validated by church officials and laws. Nothing is more to be protected than love from religion and nothing more important than your personal affairs from the government. The government ought to not be allowed to know who you spend your time with. There is no reason for it to know you that well. Marriages are for the most part a fable anyway, hardly anyone can live this ideal out, even the people who believe in it. As for religiously speaking the fags, the fornicators and the reprobates are people in the Bible are not only limited to homosexuals.
This is so plain to see its barely worth writing down. So oblivious you’re probably annoyed I even brought it up. You are probably annoyed at me that I even starting talking at all, that I am bringing up this fag issue—that I keep writing it over and over again. Perhaps I am suffering from homophobia? Perhaps you are suffering from homophobic phobia. That is, you are afraid of those people whose live you defined by a single word. The fags I can tell you; have an agenda. I can tell you even more certainly that the fags who fuel the flame of righteousness and wrath have their own aims. The fags you are thinking of… might not be the fags that will fuel the flame.
The fags who fuel the flame are the ones separated from the source of energy and who have fallen from the tree,” The Tree of Life”. The fags are the ones who’s way of life is rotting, the sodomites who brainwash their children with fantastic religious ideals and bad mouth free expression as the devil’s work –they call it the devil’s work because they are the devil’s ultimate weapon, the Anti-Christ. Projection is its number one tool. He is all around us, penetrated into every vapor of reality, recognize him cast him into the fire! So a fag is a broken limb from tree, it could be male or female, gay or strait. Could be that shitty story I started writing?



A fag is something if you were camping you might collect many to start a fire or keep one going. If you lived in the middle of a goddamn desert and ymou were in a nomadic goddamn tribe you might collect them as you walked since there aren’t many goddamn trees and its gets goddamn cold at night. Wood in fact isn’t very abundant in a goddamn desert. Anyone with any sense would only burn fags and not cut down the trees in that environment. I’m fascinated that our culture was cleaver enough to come up with a slang term out of a biblical analogy. impressive how our culture was intuitive enough to pick up Sigmund Freud’s ideas about oral fixations, put two and two together, combined with French, wow…it would seem that Biblically speaking that not all fags are homosexuals, fags even though the term is not really in the Bible we know them as Sodomites and reprobates are not just homosexuals, but rather people of a certain sinful nature, in which a shitty society would include forced sodomy which would be looked at as fortune to the one doing the forcing and as humility to the one having it forced on them.



Someone who fucks someone up their ass is different from your average gay person. To a real fag this fucking has nothing to do with love or even pleasure, it’s only about control and dominance over others. The wicked certainly are among us. It may also very well be that not all homosexuals are fags, it is my personal observation to see that some homosexuals I know are very much engaged with life and connected to its source.



I still make the bold argument that Fred Phelps is also connected to that source, doing his part in the advancement of ideas and I love him and hope God has mercy on his soul if there is a God. It would be counterproductive to hate Fred Phelps for repeating what is in the Bible, why not just hate the Bible instead? It’s better to hate a book or a religion than a person. I now think what is underway is the tetonic plates of social structures are shifting and what primarly is causing the movement is the evolution of the Christian religion.