The Unfolding Aftermath of The Death of George Floyd: The Umbrella Man of Minnesota

The Unfolding Aftermath of The Death of George Floyd: The Umbrella Man of Minnesota

The aftermath of the death of George Floyd has quickly become one of the most destructive retaliations against police brutality in American history. As of time of writing this, full-scale rioting is occurring across Minnesota city, it is being left to burn as fire departments cannot keep up with the scale of new cases of arson and the police evacuated and abandoned their 3rd District department (see link to video). The anger of the protesters cannot be understated and shows no sign of relenting.

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In order to bring context to this and what I will bring to light below, here is a brief recap of the events over 48 hours that led to this catastrophe:

On Monday 25th of May 2020, between 20:00 and 20:30, four police officers were involved in the arrest of George Floyd (age 46) on suspicion of forgery at 3759 Chicago Avenue South. During his arrest he was taken out of his car, moved some distance down the street (video) where he was forced to the ground and held there with officer Derek Chauvin (aged 44) pressing his left knee into Georges neck (full video: BE WARNED - footage shows police brutality and George losing consciousness). Despite Georges protests that he couldn’t breath no action was taken to remove pressure by officer Derek Chauvin or his 3 companion officers. After some time, George became unresponsive but continued to be held until an ambulance arrived some minutes later.

At 21:25 George Floyd is pronounced dead at the Hennepin County Medical Centre.

On Tuesday 26th, at 00:41 the Minneapolis police department sent a press release calling Georges death a “medical incident”.

At 06:45 Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey and Minneapolis Police Chef Medaria Arradondo held a press conference. Major Frey is quoted as saying “What we saw was horrible. Completely and utterly messed up.”
At 08:46 the St. Paul Mayor Melvin Carter released a statement; "The video of a Minneapolis police officer killing a defenceless, handcuffed man is one of the most vile and heartbreaking images I’ve ever seen. The officer who stood guard is just as responsible as his partner; both must be held fully accountable. This must stop now."
At 10:30 memorials pop up outside the Cup Foods on 38th street and Chicago Avenue South.
By 12:00 protesters had gathered at the site.
At 14:00 Chef Arradondo announces that all four involved police officers have been fired.
17:00 the protest officially begins. Hundreds have turned up at the site of Georges death ready march.
On 18:30 that evening the protesters marched on the Minneapolis Police Third Precinct. It is here that emotions turn to retaliation and footage shows how it escalated as protesters are seen throwing rocks at police cars whilst the police pepper spray protesters. The clash has begun.
Between 19:30 and 20:00 things escalate further, with damage to police property and tear gas being used against the crowd.

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Cont: Despite the fact that the four officers responsible for George Floyds death have all been fired, they have not been arrested (though the F.B.I. and Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension are investigating). We are still awaiting the release of body cam footage of the four police officers at the scene of George Floyds arrest. It seems unlikely this will happen any time soon as it’ll no-doubt be damning and could add fuel to the fires of passion of the rioters.

Over time more video footage emerges from the public which paints a picture of how peaceful protest escalated into destructive riots. Curiously, amongst all of the videos we have seen so far, in the last 12 hours a video of a mysterious figure has emerged which could point to how the protesters' anger became redirected from the police onto the city itself - resulting in looting and, eventually, rioting.

The video uploaded to Reddi shows a lone man, dressed head to toe in dark blue and black, carrying a black umbrella, wearing a black gas-mask with pink filters and wielding a red and black hammer (known to Reddit as “the Umbrella Man” of Minnesota) has been caught on video very calmly smashing windows at a Auto Zone (video) before turning and slowly leaving the scene. He is confronted by a man in a pink shirt (known to Reddit as “Pizza Guy”), refuses to speak except to threaten the person recording the video of him leaving the scene. The video can be seen above and here, it appears he aided (if not triggered) the insidious escalation from peaceful street protest into full scale looting in that area of the city.

For those who are not aware, take a few minutes to read up on ‘Broken Window Theory’ (text and video) and ‘COINTELPRO’ (text) to understand how this has a history of real-world cases, and is not a crack-pot theory.

A second video shows the two men leaving the area, somewhat more nonchalant than before. The Umbrella Man seems to ignore Pizza Guy whilst he sorts something with his bag. However, it is unclear whether Pizza Guy is accompanying the Umbrella Man or whether Umbrella Man is ignoring Pizza Guy who is keeping pace because the demeanour of both men has changed between both videos.

Now comes the speculative part...

Evidence has come forward that the masked man is (allegedly) none other than Police Officer Jacob Pederson of the St.Paul Police Department (https://twitter.com/Luka_Duvnjak/status/1266177650747478016)
It is impossible to say currently whether the text conversation between what is alleged to be Jordan's ex-wife and her friend is authentic or not as neither have come forward at the time of writing, but it looks pretty damning of Jordan’s involvement. It paints a picture of an Agent Provocateur deliberately encouraging the protesters to escalate the situation into the war-zone environment we now see today. Hopefully more clarity will be shed on what occurred and who this Umbrella Man really is.

In the past few hours CNN correspondent journalist, Omar Jimenez, has been arrested by Minnesota police whilst the Governor of Minnesota has activated the National Guard to quash the rioting. They stated no reason for his arrest and as this video shows, he was willing to be compliant with their requests, of which they didn’t appear to offer any before arresting and taking him away.

As this continues to escalate we can only hope that the wave comes to its peak and begins to crash soon.

How I became A Monster (an older draft from 2011)

My name is Francis Cubric, I'm twenty five years old and I'm a nanny by profession. I became a nanny cause I've always wanted to have kids of my own but don't want to have them without the finances to support them or whilst I'm too young. I don't want to ruin my, and their, lives.

I always start my working day at six thirty, the same time I always do five days a week. I get round to the house for half seven and make sure that Harvey is awake, bathed, fed and clothed. I'm essentially this kids parents wrapped into one package, except I get a pay cheque for being it. Plus, being a guy I guess I only fill one of those gender roles . . .

Today started fairly average. We did the usual 'getting up' routine and then I walked with Harvey to his play group first thing in the morning. We always hold hands because I don't want him to run off or fall and hurt himself - not that I think he would, he's a good kid. It's his parents that I'm thinking of. They hold the stick with the carrot attached. Even so I'm worried that Harvey's emotional developement is being strangled by their absence, a kid needs his parents ya know? I mean, I tried to kick up some dead leaves with him in the park but he was having none of it. What kind of kid does not want to kick up autum leaves?

Sorry, I'll stick to the point. So, yeah - it was chilly and clowded over that morning. I'd wrapped Harvey up in his winter coat, hat and scarf. We walked the mile or so through the park past the duck pond and into town to his play group. Here I usually see him to the gate and let him walk on inside and wait untill I know he's gone in. Gives him his own autonomy, right? Most parents walk their kids in but I'm not his parent, so . . .
But today when I tried to let go of his hand at the gate he wouldn't let go of mine. I decided to go in with him. You know, make sure he was alright. So we walked in together. Past reception cause there was no one at the desk and straight into the main hall.

Right. Well. We enter the room and it's full of parents, right? Or child-minders or play support workers. I dunno. Never been in before. But it's full of kids, maybe about half a douzen, with toys running around all over the place and adults, all of them women, and all of them chatting to each other [it was like "Loose Women"] and I don't know if any of them saw me come in but I noticed them. Or, actually, I noticed "her".

I sort of instantly stopped and, I guess, stared. Slipped into a day dream. She stood out a mile. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She looked too young to be a mother, could have been some one who worked there but there was a little girl, I think, trying to hide behind her long, lean legs, dressed in black tights and suggested otherwise. She wore a viberent green skirt with a slight crease and darker green swirls, velvet I think, embroided into the fabric that ended just before the knee. A yellow woolen cardigan that hugged her figure just right. No too tight or baggy. And her hair . . . I'm sorry if I'm wittering. I'm just nervous, okay? So. Her hair . . . long, flame red hair that poured from the top of her head like liquid fire and ran down to the centre of her back. It flicked with grace and ease as she turned her head and I saw her eye's for the first time. She looked like the worlds sexiest traffic light. Do you believe in love at first sight? I think I do. I think right that second I fell in love with her. And her eyes . . .wow. A deep crystal blue, yet warm and welcoming like a lagoon. I could feel myself diving into those eye's. Those eyes looking back at mine. Into mine . . .

Thats when I realised that I had been staring and she was staring back at me. Shock plastered across her dainty, pale face. Her eyes had quickly held me in contempt. I was jolted from my day dream back into reality. Thats when I realised that some thing was very wrong. Every one, every women I should say, had stopped chattering. Not only that but they were all looking at me. Some looked disgusted, some shocked but all of them stared with gawping jaws. Apart from the kids in the back ground there was dead silence.
I was starting to panic. I didn't understand what was happening. Had they caught me looking? Was some thing awful on my face, or behind me? I felt like ice cold water had been thrown over my soul.

Then I felt a twinge in my left hand and my arm tug and I realised, as I looked, that Harvey was still there, only I was holding his hand and I hadn't let go. He was pulling away from me. And it was then, out the corner of my own eye that I saw myself. I realised why they were staring and . .  oh God. Well. You know what happened. I have to say it? In my own words? Well . . . I had an erection. A really obvious one. Everyone had seen. I think I went white cause I felt faint and in terror I let go of Harvey's hand. I don't know where he went next cause I felt this tap on my shoulder and it startled me. I almost yelped. But I couldn't, I was stiff as a rod you see - no, my whole body not my - anyway, so I turned my head sharply to the right but I couldn't move my body and there was this old women just stood there beside me. She held a form and a pen in her hand, a register, in retrospect, and asked me, I think if I was Harveys father.

[here the suspect goes silent for half a minute]

In terror I blurtered out: No, he's not mine.

[here the suspect closes his eyes and goes completely silent]

[[END OF TRANSCRIPT]]

Present: Constable Parkins, Detective Kowul, suspect Francis Cubric and his lawyer Martin Hudge
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The national papers ran the headlines: "Parents Playground Erection Horror", "Nurserys Revolving Door One Stop For Paedo's" and "Perverts in Our Pre-Schools".

It wouldn't be so bad but my mum reads the taboids.

Chainsaw Penis: Hexakisiohexekontahexaphobia Review

Chainsaw Penis are comparable to infamous troll and pharmaceutical executive Martin Shkerli and by the end of this article I intend to prove it.

At the time of writing this I am recovering from flu - a virus well known for spreading when airborne, infecting all in the vicinity and destroying the hosts constitution in a matter of hours. Symptoms include driving the sufferer between blazing fever and freezing cold, sour throat, muscle and head aches, general fatigue, converting your face into a Niagara Falls of snot, mucus and other bodily fluids...and less commonly, violent vomiting and diarrhoea. Incidentally, this is a perfect apt description of Chainsaw Penis and side-effects of attending one of their gigs. Their fans more akin to that dick who just came back from Spain and caught something nasty on his last day there but came into work non-the-less, they just cant help sharing plague with everyone and telling you how great a time they had catching it.

Chainsaw Penis is a band which, for better or wor- no, just for worse, doesn't know when to quit. Not content with committing audio-genocide on the Metal music genre it appears that some tosser showed them that The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode where Homer overhears Lisa telling Bart the story 'The Raven', so now they're going to ruin that for everyone as well. Thanks, you prick.

Their forth album title 'Hexa... Hexa-kisio-hexe-konta-hexa-phobia... ' I cant even begin to pronounce it...fuck it. Their forth album is somewhat of an evolution for the band which, just like the flu virus, is bad news for everyone. Departing from their traditional unhealthy obsession with Tommy Wiseau ('The Room') roots they've incorporated the flavourful, super-natural elements of black metal through the inter-section of classical dark tale, literary genius... Edgar Alan Poe, though not with any degree of respect or skill (of course). A move which should unsettle the hard-core fan and the literary world alike. I promise you the final product is not JUST of expectantly poor quality, it's truly terrible, at its worst it sounds like Cradle of Filth dying and at best Iron Maiden gone completely fucking senile. Fans will not be disappointed.

(For the record, I'm only doing this review because if I do they may allow me to leave. I've been kidnapped and held in a basement prison for about two weeks now. I've survived off wall-moss and dead bees. I lick the condensation off the brick when thirsty. Not once has anyone come to clean out the litter-tray. I used to think being a prostitute to fund your heroine habit was the lowest you could get but they’re practically Paris Hilton compared to me where fighting off spiders for breakfast and not having a towering pile of sawdust and faeces fall on you in your sleep I consider to be a good day. Being the official reviewer of Chainsaw Penis is the WORST.

Not only that but after years of being coerced into reviewing their studio albums though blackmail or extortion I was told (in a rather dull manner) by my doctor that I may now never have children. All of my sperm come out with “crooked necks” now as if my ball-bag is a million-man mosh-pit where they give each other concussion before sprinting off to throw up on a old sock I keep in my draw.

Also, I miss my dog. My dog is a HUGE C.P. fan. Not my influence (see first and second album reviews). Dammit, I love that bitch but I don't love that she now wakes me up HOWLING until I play 'Disregard Females, Acquire Chainsaws', pisses on my CD collection twice daily (who hates Bjork THAT badly?! SERIOUSLY?!) only drinks knock-off 'White Lightning' and not even official brand but knock-off shit that's about 1000% and smells like a week old colostomy bag. I don't know what they did to her when they kidnapped her...but but I digress.)

Literal Party Animal

Though the bands take on the black-metal genre can be compared to asking a Chav to describe the book Dante's Inferno and receiving the answer “Dan, t'e aint dun nuffin'k. 'E dun even like infer-noes or whatevez. I ain't no grass, me!” then pisses on your shoe, the album is an oddly refreshing change of pace for C.P., Death-Metal mockery sits well at home with their sensibilities (probably though because death-metal couldn't get more ridiculous if it tried, but death-metal never had C.P. in their corner before).

Surprisingly, this album does contain tracks of note, one of such being 'My Lovely Horse of The Apocalypse'; a love-letter cover song to an retired and overly-flogged reference (you hearing me yet, FRANK?) to the once-great but now barely remembered signature television show of the 90's - Father Ted. 

The Catholic Church's Protests Against C.P. Still Going Strong

Is it coincidence that this track is a metal-bastardisation of a comedy track that was a homage to a 1975 Eurovison Song Contest entry for Ireland, thus producing an ultra-dilute rendition of the original, a trolling so strong that would send the original creators into a bile-spewing frenzy? Are C.P. really that smart? This review thinks not.

Oh, and an honourable mention to 'man of mystery' Dreamboat Starchild who is also on the album and of whom I know nothing about.

As someone who had both way before they were fashionable, believe me when I say that the only way to truly appreciate Chainsaw Penis is with hipster-squared level of irony or severe mental health issues. If technical-skill were a beverage then this album would be diet water, if trolling were a car then C.P. would be the Robin Reliant with a missing wheel. There is little good to say about this album except that you've heard this before but better and somewhere else...but not from their previous three albums which were shite.

Thankfully the album is short, nine tracks at twenty nine minutes and twelve seconds long you may wonder if you could physically bare it all without setting fire to your home just so someone will come and save you. However, you'll be glad to hear the last ten minutes is of solid silence, thus no matter what you end up paying for this album you're being over-changed by a third, although I would argue if you're paying for this at all that you are a monster who deserve everything that's coming to you and may what's coming to you be a rape-gang of stray cats to fuck you in your arse and ears with their ugly barbed cocks.

What makes this album especially challenging to someone like myself who has been forced to endure their crud for the last five years is the fact that they seem to have actually improved with time. This is dreadfully discouraging as it means that not only will they produce more music off the back of this but that they're likely to become more popular, not less. That's right, Chainsaw Penis, self-proclaimed 'Worst Band in The World', the undisputed Trolls of Music', the industry dubbed 'Murderers of Metal', the justified 'Arseholes of Audio' are sat on the rocky edge of a precipice of talent that can only be developed through genuine love for the art they produce.

If anyone should mistake this for a compliment, they are wrong.

This is the kind of talent even Nickleback would turn down. This is the kind of love that an adorable puppy gives its master after eating its own smouldering puppy-poop - oh, it may look cute and harmless but you'll run screaming like Satans finally come to collect if it chases you, rancid crap-laden tongue flailing about, to smear poop-parasites into your eyes and blind you forever.

Run away, child. Run away now and never look back!

And if you're still here, well you're not going to leave really, are you? You're going to buy this album and continue giving these trolls-in-human-skin money which will only encourage them and nothing I can say will stop you. I'm like a man trying to stop a run-away train using wet paper. The thing is I can completely understand this, I feel at home in old, dank dives of Blackpool, Newcastle or Huddersfield where old rockers and crusty-punks still reside, swilling over-priced Red Stripe whilst thrashing my hair around like I'm trying to detach my own head and paying good, hard-earned cash for Petrol Bastard tickets with no shame, dignity or clean clothes. There truly is no saving us lot. We are filth. And I get that our world is dying in the face of modern global commercialism and gentrification of music styles. Many old culturally significant haunts are gone, bought up by banks and converted into over-expensive housing, Tesco Express' or worse...hipster coffee houses filled with trendy-cunts and overly-sensitive feminists selling 'vegan-friendly, glutton-free, nut-free, fun-free short-bread for cats made by cats' and pushing badly made 'zines which, ironically...literally ironically, offer reviews of  the now underground artists who would otherwise thrive at hovels like ours if they still existed.

But is Chainsaw Penis really the answer to this new world when molotov cocktails exist, guys? Hmm, anyone?

All in all, Chainsaw Penis is back and as bad as ever, but my dog likes it and if you like music dogs enjoy you'll find the album out now at www.chainsawpenis.bandcamp.com You can name your own price for the album which is rather good for something that at the very least should come with a health warning, kinda like the antithesis of Martin Shkreli, if you think about it.

Creating A World in Seven Months

God created the World in seven days. Seven months on and I still have not finished designing a world on paper.

God makes everything look easy. That's why we want to drag 'Him' down to our level. Make God's magic tangible and place it in our hands (electricity) - though not always under our control (killer bees). Creating a whole world though, that's a tall order, even for a supernatural-sentience, even 'He' needed a rest... and has been more or less resting ever since.

About a year ago I had a simple idea for a DnD role-playing game adventure -  re-create that sensation of isolation, fear and gloom felt in infamously challenging computer game Dark Souls, the film Cube and the 90's T.V. show Knightmare. Then shape it into a liveable experience. I want to do something different with the game that I'd not experienced with it before; to have the environment speak tombs about the world without it being laid out for you by None Playable Characters (NPCs). Putting all the emphasis on the players to figure it out or face dire consequences. It turns out that it's not as easy as one might imagine.

In order to make the game enjoyable as well as difficult I developed some strict rules that I am abiding to in order to shape this game:

5. There is always a way out. Even if it involves going THROUGH the hindering force... or the exchanged death of one player for another.
4. The locations the characters progress through must be telling a story of What, How and Why. All clues are in the environment. No exceptions.
3. Puzzles must be solved in real-world terms i.e. use chess, rubric cube and other puzzles to represent the situation facing players in game for them to solve. I can't have a puzzle unless I can represent it in real-terms.
2. The players are my enemy. I must beat them but by the rules of the game. NO INSTA-KILLS.
1. Make it fun.

I am not sure how or why God made the world as 'He' did but 'He' is an idiot. God, like most DnD writers forgot the first and foremost rule of any successful role-playing game - fun.

I'd hate to imagine what creating a universe feels like.

I've decided to focus on creating this game for the time being, that and I am completely disillusioned from the idea of writing a blog that says the same shit every other person on the internet is thinking. This is my new BIG project and this will be my log of the process.

Short horror story: Red (draft 2)

Despite my better judgement I entered the small rest room and was glad to see that it was vacant. I listen to double check but all seemed clear. In fact, according to the wall chart by the door it had just been cleaned. Not to be picky but going in a dirty rest room puts me on edge and no one wants to be on edge when taking a shit. My gut grumbles restlessly. Content with the privacy I hurried into the second cubical of two to do a number two. Quick as I can I do my toilet ritual; I check under the seat for spiders, I put the seat down and check it for splash marks, then I wipe it down anyway with two sheets of paper and finally I double check the amount of toilet paper. When I am satisfied I finally lock the door securely, sit and try to relax.

I am sat there for a few seconds... but nothing stirs. My gut groans and feels like it is tying knots. I wish I was at home where I am comfortable. I wish I had not eaten that burrito for lunch. A curse upon Sharon for suggesting I eat there. This is why I should not take food advice from anyone. Especially not temps from I.T. Support who I will never see again. Fuck foreign food. None of it is safe!

Alone and in silence I wait... I think I feel movement but, well, it's taking it's time - though you should not rush these things. Once I heard a rumour; a guy named Carl from Accounting had left half way through a presentation he was hosting to attend a 'private pool party', as he'd call it, (upon being asked he'd tell you that "The party was a success - I made quite a splash". Crude). Only he'd been constipated lately yet finally things were moving down there, but could not leave the presentation for long, so he'd pushed to hurry things along and, well, he pushed too hard and... the phrase that he 'fell through' has never been more appropriate.

A noise cuts through the silence. A constant drip...drip...drip of a leaky tap. I hate it when people don't turn off taps properly. I try to ignore it's irritating repetitiveness and notice the graffiti on the back of the door and parts of the wall. I read some of it to pass the time. Most of them are mindless tags by young, useless teenagers with no better way to make their mark on the world, but some are more interesting, have history to them. A story etched in time, like a gravestone I suppose.
“For thick cock call...” “...is a SLAG!” “Newcastle F.C.” “Don't beam me up Scotty, I'm taking a shi-” This last one amused me and I giggle. I feel myself loosening up.

Suddenly the rest room doors slam open, someone runs inside, instantly crashes into the cubical next to me and locks the door. The shock of the door slamming open caused me to tense up and the thought of some body hearing my back splash is intolerable. I have no choice, I'll hold it in until they're gone...

I try and think about something else but aside from how much easier this process would be in the comfort of my own home, a place too far for me to get to in time, there is nothing else worth thinking about. I hate public rest rooms. Breeding pits for germs and homosexuals.

A few minutes pass. The silence is awkward, broken only by the sound of whoever is in the next cubical breathing heavily. I am growing impatient, why won't they just go and then...go? My stomach is screaming at me! I try to read the graffiti again but it holds no interest the second time over.

...are they crying in there?

Curiosity overtakes my impatience. I lean a little closer. Their breath is softer now, I can tell that much at least. With hesitation I place my ear against the cubical wall. I listen...

Snivelling. Yes, definitely snivelling and... weeping. The sound of toilet roll being pulled and torn off in sheets. The sudden lack of whimpers indicate they are dabbing their eyes.

What is going on in there? I am tempted to knock gentle and try consul them but... would that be strange? What if it's some kind of Gay buggering code? What is the etiquette for this? What should I do, if anything? Oh, Lord I would convert in a SECOND if you'd make them go away!

THUD. It came from the cubical next to me. I jump but I just about manage to keep myself clenched and though I desperately try to remain quiet I let slip a tiny fart. There is complete silence for five, maybe six seconds and I wonder if they've heard me or not. I'd die if they did. I would just die. Cautious, I press my ear again firmly against the wall.

Nothing. I hear absolutely nothing. Which, I though, was odd.

THUD came another THUD then another and then... a carcoffany of exploding porcelain. The chilling shrieks of... I cannot tell, their voice is startled and mix pitched. I accidentally lose control of my sphincter and let loose to lost dignity in the presence of a stranger. This time I doubt my shame has been heard, or if it has, cared about. I throw myself away from the wall still attached firmly to my ivory white seat and frantically grasp at the paper dispenser with a free hand. It turns and produces sheets but my panicked hands won't grasp it. I should not be here.

Water flows through the gap under the cubical wall. I lift my feet up instantly but too late for my socks which are drenched. The lengths of white paper that I have tugged but failed to grasp unravel into the water and turn transparent as they merge. As I place my feet upon the door another wave of liquid fire escapes me. I should not be here...

There is thrashing, crashing, a struggle is occurring, the wall dividing wall trembles then cracks and contorts with a SLAM, pieces of lamination flake to the floor. SLAM. I push myself to lean as far into the corner as I can. I think I've shit on myself. I am stained but I no longer care. I no longer care about anything other when what is happening beyond the wall. This is a joke. Some horrible joke, surely?

Another SLAM shudders the wall then another then another and a wet smacking and smacking then violent CRACK. The wall dents inward and splinters plasterboard. That's when I see it. The redness. The Blood. Blood seeps beneath the wall and blends with water, trickling and spreading. Travelling fast it soaks into the paper and seeping, climbs up. Up. Up. Red taints the purest white. My eyes fix on this. The reaching, climbing corruption of red blood over white paper. It reaches up like strained fingers. Fear has me now. I cannot move. This is no joke. I could run for it, but I cannot leave here shit stained and trousers by my ankles. Besides, what if I only draw attention to myself, what if whatever is happening to the stranger next door should happen to me? I should not be here.

A form slides down the broken wall. I can see it... partially, from underneath the wall. A hand falls limp into view. Their skin is tanned. And suddenly the shock subsides as reality sinks in, the reality of the situation. That is a person in there. They are a person! They are a person! They are a person and they are dying!

I must help them.

Too late I realize that the screaming has stopped, or maybe it was me who was screaming. I don't know for sure or how long it has been this way. Time seems... distant. Reality is... slow. Colours appear drained of vibrancy, different hues of grey. I feel cold and tremble terribly. Light headed. I am gasping for air. I cannot breathe. I am having a panic attack!

Something slithering through broken porcelain is the only noise amongst the remaining silence. The hand beneath the wall twitches. A groaning sound as the hand turns to place it's palm on the toilet floor. I see the shadow of something I know I shouldn't as it snakes its way around the wrist and up the arm. I try to control my fear but it will not be subdued. Without being able to help the stranger I forsake cleaning myself in favour of fleeing. I throw myself to my feet and pull up my pants. Fuck the stains and fuck the smell. I must get out. I MUST!

I trip over my own feet to reach the door. My face greets the door warmly. The shock knocks some sense back into my head and lungs. I've bash my nose. Colour rushes back into everything. I am shaken but not deterred. I grasp the lock. A great snapping sound cuts the air in two. Something inside me feels a stab of ice coldness and I feel sick. I pull back the latch and throw myself out of the door. Out of confinement and into the open. The rest is a blur of motion and memory. But what I do recall is this: The mirror before me reflected bloody nosed me and what was in that cubical, for a few seconds I could not grasp what I was looking at. The door was torn from it's hinges revealing all inside and... and something sliding its way back down the drainage pipe. I - I believe that I passed out at this point.

When I came to one of your officers was standing over me with a pistol to my head whilst another officer handcuffed me rather roughly and now here I am. So, now that you know my story, I would like to see the photographs.

“How do you know there are photographs if you were unconscious?”

You are the police. You are obsessed with surveillance and records. Of course you have photographs.

“...Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

Until I see what I am accused of I refuse to incriminate myself further. I am, after all, innocent.

In his eyes I see reluctance but he won't get more from me. He produces a leather bound black faux-leather folder and slides it across the table. I eye it first, then open it. I feel that by looking back on these events I am somehow incriminating myself. I do not know why I expected the pictures to be black and white but I did. Instead they were red.
Pulp smeared across the walls and floor.
(Red)
A badly beaten corpse without a head.
(Red)

Poem: Sisyphus or The Impossible Game

I wrote this poem because I was very upset and struggling to deal with the emotional conflict that comes with being sentient and smart enough to be nihilistic. When relationships break down there is a fracture in your life that is difficult to mend. Everything looks uncertain, diminished in it's reliability to be as it is. How to act or what would result in the least amount of heart break, or even what you want becomes uncertain and frightening. Life, love and conflict are the themes, I hope I've captured them well enough.

I don't have a name for this poem (I am terrible at being able to encapsulate the entire spirit of anything into a single element) but I might call it 'Sisyphus' - the King who was punished for his chronic lying to forever push a boulder up a hill only for it to fall back to the start when he neared the peak.
Or I could name it The Impossible Game because life and love have no rules, except the ones we construct culturally and then often we break them.

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In light of all of this, when all is said and done,
Life is never easy and life is never "won"

It starts where it all might end, and ends before it starts.
Nothing lasts forever, not memories nor hearts.
Love is a whisper in the mind: a sweet "forget me not".
But in this soured head of mine all things forever rot.

Lies spun true, like straw to gold, turn your eyes to lust
So you are blind to see the cracks when my armor erodes to rust.
No one wants to be the hedgehog, or porcupine of quill.
To get too close to others stings, for others it may kill.

In light of all of this, when all is said and done,
Life is never easy and life is never "won".

Every wars been lost before and every slight been scored.
Every scar starts as a cut and every one been scorned.
What is right and what is left (of us) if good intentions turn lurid?
What paths lead to fortune and what paths lead to ruin?

In light of all of this, when all is said and done,
Life is never easy and life is never "won".

Contort confusion into conflict, skirmish with reality.
Raiding answers to grasp some sense, no break of bitter clarity.
If nothing is ever simple and simply nothing ever is,
Is nothing ever after and nothing ever bliss?

It ends where it all might start, and dies before the end.
Nothing lasts forever, not lovers nor your friends.
Love is a whisper in the heart: a sweet "forget me not"
But in this festered heart of mine all things forever rot.

In light of all of this, when all is said and done,
Life is never easy and life is never "won".

Not Always Wrong

My first story to be published on the famous internet website of retailers inside stories "Not Always Right"

http://notalwaysright.com/bottle-bottle-on-the-wall-who-is-the-dumbest-of-them-all/30188?fb_action_ids=10151579437494193&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=aggregation&fb_aggregation_id=288381481237582