Now I Am Nothing But A Pawn

Journey—Revelation

MoTW—In A Dark Place

"Hey, i didn't say anything about the trash, k? not that i even have to
mention it, thanks"

I received the above message on my cell phone this past Tuesday. It came
from somewhere in California.

I started to reply to this message but after fumbling around with the
keys and not knowing where the space key was, I gave up. And then it
dawned on me.

This was a message sent to me to trigger something in my mind causing me
to do something dastardly, like an assassination or an illegal back
alley boob job.

Fearing I would blank out and do this dastardly thing, I popped a bunch
of speed and spent the next few days bouncing around the house,
vacuuming, sweeping, mowing and painting, much to the horror of the
woman who didn't like the all black interior I had come up with while
she was at work. No problem though since was so amped up I was able to
paint everything a lovely off-white before she had a complete mental
breakdown.

I showed her the message and she called me crazy and tried to convince
me it was sent to me by mistake, so I called HER crazy and tried pouring
the rest of the speed down my throat but she slapped the bottle out of
my hand and then picked up the rest of the lovely pink pills and flushed
them down the toilet.

Banned from leaving the house, I sat on the couch flipping aimlessly
through the hundred or so channels, not really seeing anything as the
words ran through my mind over and over again.

And then I passed out.

What usually happens next is you wake up which I did. And that brings us
to today.

The first thing I did was take out the trash and then it came back to
me. The message. With horror etched plainly on my face and hands, I went
back inside and checked out the news station to see if there were any
stories about recent assassinations or boob jobs, but found neither.
This meant that I had actually slept for a couple days and not gone into
automated mode killing, slicing and dicing around the globe.

Or did it?

Maybe it's been kept under wraps by all the governments. Maybe they
don't want the word to get out about what I did for fear of upsetting
the balance of something. I can see that with an assassination I
suppose, but a back alley boob job? How can that upset the balance of
anything? (Unless I went completely overboard and made the victim way
too top heavy.)

Now I'm scared to leave the house because I know that message was a
trigger for something, but I need to leave to pick up more speed from my
"connection" because the one pill that managed to stay behind in the
blue toilet water will not last long enough.

For any assassination or boob job I happen to commit or perform from
this day on, I apologise. Blame it on that motherfucking puppetmaster
from the 805 area code.

On a side note, seems that Bob has decided to support an Obama/Clinton
ticket. This is after I offered him the post of First Lady if I win. To
paraphrase something somebody said this past week: I'm going to cut his
nut off.

And no, not "nuts". Ask him why it's "nut". See if he tells you about
that snowblower "experiment".

COMING NEXT: That grand finale thing

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