Machiavellian Trash

Most people had the annoying tendency of telling Randal Fincher that prison had irreparably fucked up his life. Or if prison itself hadn't undermined his every chance of a decent future for him, whatever thinking and decisions had determined his karmic path in his life before prison had probably sufficed. Of course, this message was never delivered so nakedly. It was sanitized in the context of etiquette, wrapped tastefully with tasteless pity, and finally sold as an unwanted donation of love. Ten million kind words & helping-hands awaited him wherever he was familiar, or if he did something familiar. He felt like he couldn't clear his throat or blink with any emphasis or else someone would ask him what the problem was, already ready with an answer.  One of the many, flippant diagnoses ascribed to him over the years was, he was a social-retreat. That meant Randal had some pretty dire misgivings about the world. It meant he saw chaos & fury where a sane individual saw on...

There is an inarguably alienative impression coming off the bouncer to the Aronofsky Bar & Grille as he moves toward the entrance, the cold nightair and the other anonymous faces on the long, busy sidewalk and their voices separate and yet of a piece and the new clothes that he's wearing and the bouncer's eyes moving over the fugitive, the stranger's bodybuilder face keenly attuned for discrepancy between the counterfeit i.d. and the skinny/confident figure before him. "Birthday?" He didn't change that; too easy to forget. "Bit of a ways from Las Vegas, ain't ya?" "Business trip." "In a bar? At this hour? Good work if you can find it, I suppose." "Depends on what you mean by 'good'," he says. Eyes moving over every letter of the forgery, "You wanna say something about my job?" "Didn't plan on it, no. Like I said, business." "And now the $10,000 question: what business?" ...

It is indeed strange how the deeply impersonal can become the deeply personal and vice versa. At some point, we all want fame: or esteem, or acknowledgement, or respect. Milo Gollander, for instance, wanted to be a great architect, drafting & assembling massive buildings that punctuated the cities they were erected within by dwarfing those other structures, forcing them down the way a bitter john forces an unfortunate, oblivious hooker to suck his penis in the empty belief it will make him a man. Since about age 12, when the ordinary juices that spoil our default, programmed, innocent disposition of the world and the infinity of experiences it contains rushes out from the shadows of our biology and a boy hopes, means to understand some valuable purpose & direction in the indefinite world before him...Milo Gollander only wanted to impress his dead grandfather. The indifference of the dead, it seems, holds a power that reaches far, far beyond any sort of logic or material gain, a...

The fact of the matter was, there  wasn't   much to do around the retirement home, for the residents, employees or anyone who'd ever bother to visit one or the other.With the minor exception of a small handful of'70s Babies (as in people born in the 1970s) no one needed assistance with the primary responsibilities of daily life--washing, dressing, organizing their rooms and belongings. There was, on average, at least 12 hours a day utterly bare of urgency or need for personal effort. Sleep was valued as an invaluable luxury, when, in the 6 or 7 hours sleep could be generated and fostered in the body, with- or without drugs. Heroin & methamphetamine, by any name other than heroin & methamphetamine, was purchased and consumed and remorsed and celebrated like a strange, hateful, ambivalent sort of deity, never loved, always worshiped.  So, Tiffany and Brittany, like thousands if not millions of others within Brooklyn and the great, lonely and narcotized span of ...

Call it premonition, call it old debts receiving their Final Notice of Collection: In the brief (and yet leisurely) weeks leading up to his ill-timed, inevitable discovery in the world of 2036, the hero of heroes was having a positively awful time with insomnia.  The moodswings of anger & pity he'd felt towards people in the retirement home (namely, Tiffany and Brittany, among others) carried on in those supplementary portions of the brain where a sort of casual-review of the day's contents undergoes whatever the synapses request of them, in those places any of us might be more familiar with and so-called professional science seems to neglect out of habit.... Sisyphus's memory returning to other lives, their weight & strain upon him with little mercy other than their own finite nature... The dark silence of the room Samantha shared with him... He would move the ordinary fingers of his ordinary hand over his chest where Levanarskie's riflebullet plunged and oblit...

Of the millions of Americans who didn't know, didn't know they didn't know, etc. etc., Randal Fincher was probably the most handicapped by his lack of awareness of all things related to the tiny god formula.  For most of the last 20 years he'd either: been in state prison for his part in a successful robbery of a grocery store...released on parole, living in homeless shelters or abjectly poor housing...been in possession of illegal narcotics & opiates and therefore returning to prison...or attending various group- and one-on-one therapy sessions intended to cure him of his dangerously bad habits and philosophy toward what he considered "social crime." And as bad as being betrayed was, and as bad as the harsh restriction of prison was, and as much as he knew in his soul that he was biologically built for something better than this angry routine of horseshit: the therapy was the absolute worst.  For instance, since about 2020, when he had any personal memory...

In the profound hope it doesn't spoil our credibility, it should be made abundantly clear to the reader at this point that much of what follows is to be regarded as serious hypothesis. Federally-warranted requests for personal information (including bank-records & private communication (emails, phone calls, texts) of Dr. Milo Gollander have cast light on a terrifyingly wide and insidiously well-connected dark underground--a veritable railroad-to-freedom for one of the most deplorable humans to ever draw breath from the world.  It was the intention of the authors of this document to hand-copy (you know, with a regular keyboard) select conversations/interrogations between Dr. Gollander and Thalamus Geary and the various people he spoke to whilst in pursuit of the traitorous golden child...but, in the name & benefit of saving our energy towards writing other things, we'll just tell you now that it's not gonna be until Sisyphus is "found out" or whatever that ...