Victor thought of the single word that could be used to name his desire. But then he forgot it when Captain Kirk started frying some unfortunate aliens who had no concept of the extent of mankind's will for violence. And then it popped into his head again this most brilliant word.

As he pondered the consequences that this word would have upon the very cradle of humanity, his mind froze in liquid carbonite for what could have been milliseconds or centuries. When his conscious senses returned the word was gone again. 

Forever lost. No hope left.

Was he tripping or dreaming? He couldn't quite tell, perhaps both. He felt both drugged and foggy, extremely disoriented, like he had just fallen off a shuttle bus onto the streets of an alien city. Thoughts or words?

Perhaps freer sexuality is violently repressed in human cultures out of fear of Beauty. Beauty cannot come easily to an entity. It a process attained through striving and luck. Every man, woman, and child must strive to be beautiful. Beauty is a free spirit with a carefree, loving soul and nothing but pity and servitude can destroy that.

Victor, suddenly aware of his rock hard nakedness, attempted to arouse himself and then stopped out of boredom. It seemed pointless to him to masturbate while Star Trek was on. Was the show in English or dubbed in French? The stereo was too loud to hear any sounds coming from the television. The room was too dark to get a fix on the furniture and walls so he could remember where he was. He shook his head at all the confusion and attempted to re-evaluate things...

In Paris, where he strongly desired himself to be, Victor lived a daydream existence of drinking, reading books, and thinking. Every day was pretty much a party. No day job. He lived on a student's budget amongst his vin de table, baguette crumbs, perpetually-smelly clothes and vintage 286 laptop computer. There was always enough work and fun around in Paris for an enterprising and open-minded young American. He had done everything from English translations to network installations to 500,000 franc drug deals. He didn't care what he did as long as it was fairly simple and he had no long-term responsibilities. The French are the only civilized people on Earth.

Victor dutifully saved his money to drink 25-franc Carlsbergs and talk with the philosophes and writers in the cave-like student bars of the Left Bank.  It was there he spent long nights gorged on red wine and Camembert sandwiches writing his viral thoughts into his laptop computer. He was working on his first book, entitled 20 Ways to Rape a Sheep.

It was a political philosophy to update John Locke’s tired old model. The work is not yet completed at the time of this writing (1998) and tentatively scheduled for release in 2003. When completed, it will be a glowing beacon of hope in a time of darkness.

Victor didn't always hang out in bars, however.

He always got in the rave parties and clubs free because his best friend Gert-Jan was a DJ and musician. They had toured Europe and even a brief stint in Asia. Gert-Jan had sold out clubs all over Europe with his insane mixture of French house and hardcore mixing. The kids loved him and his style was often imitated but never duplicated in the rave clubs that dot the Continent. His legendary 6-hour sets could keep a crowd going until daybreak.

When Gert-Jan's parents unexpectedly died in a tragic airplane crash in Brussells, Gert-Jan took a DJ hiatus and later decided to quit the decks forever and do drugs full time for a while. Even after he quit spinning he was still so popular the club kids would approach him on the street and try to hang with him.

Gert-Jan was sympathetic but not interested in returning to the dance scene until he had healed his mind. He feared he was lulling himself into a dull insanity. Gert-Jan wished Victor was there to roll him a joint, hug him and tell him everything would be okay.

Wherever in time and space Victor currently was, he felt his brain begin to sweat inside his poor head. He slid off the couch onto the floor. He quickly propped himself up again. He slid off it again. His body was liquid and kept seeking the lowest point in the room. He imagined a giant straw snorting him up and then


spitting him back onto the couch. But then like mercury Victor beaded and scattered back onto the floor in all directions. Unable to reassemble himself, he feared soaking through the carpet, seeping through the floorboards, and then dripping into the basement. And if he did that he was fucked because the basement was full of neon green glowing rats and spiders that would drink him up.

Finally making the connection between body and mind, Victor jerked himself upright and switched on the lights. Color blotches danced in kaleidoscopic patterns before his eyes. Reds, blues, yellows, greens. Humans are creatures of image, Victor mused. Everything is meaningless without an image.

But then an altogether clearer realization hit him as the color blotches started to resemble household shapes. He was not in Paris at all. He had automatically assumed that because Paris was where he most wanted to be that he was actually there. He was elsewhere.

He was suddenly sure that he was in America because the TV was very large and because it was on although he wasn't really watching it.

Living in America, doh. Seattle, probably.

It was a pain so obvious and yet he had forgotten. His reality must have been temporarily numbed by memories as sweet as opium hash.

"Sarah!!" he screamed, "Saaaaa "Raaaaah Smile!"

She didn’t answer him. She must be chilling in Vancouver.

But this place smells too evil to be Seattle, Victor thought, but that could also be my laundry basket. 

Victor could not remember at the moment that he and his girlfriend Sarah had been un-sanctimoniously ejected from France by Immigration officials for organizing a break-in warehouse party and then being too fucked up on E’s and jellies to run away with the money when it got busted.

The French don’t take kindly to Americans organizing and making money on illegal warehouse raves. In fact, it infuriates them and breaks about 1100 sections of their Civil Code.

Victor and Sarah were escorted by armed guards to the airport and deported without a trial. Victor felt like a social zero when a crusty-assed cop tried to rape his sweet Sarah in the holding cell.

Victor liked living in Seattle, and he thought of the cool breezes of Ballard and the campfires and excellent beer and pot parties by the Puget Sound when he needed a chill-out. He loved Seattle, and it surprised him because he normally didn't like places so much.

He stood up and looked out the window expecting to see Greenlake, a small man-made lake in the Northeast end of Seattle. Instead he saw an ugly street and a police officer’s scowling face. He hated it when that happened. The police officer knocked on the glass and made direct eye contact with Victor through the thin curtain. Victor instinctively ducked, dropped, and rolled over to the stereo and turned it down.

It was turned all the way up, shit.

He then crawled back to the couch and hid under the blanket. He heard several loud knocks that eventually faded into silence. They weren't going to take him without a fight, the blue meanie bastards.

Victor thought of his best friend Gert-Jan, who was presumably in Cassis, chilling in his beach house. Gert-Jan's parents had recently died and Victor hadn't heard from him in 2 months. He had no desire to go to the funeral. He hated funerals even worse than marriages. 

Victor noticed his shirt was wet and he couldn't tell if it was wet with sweat, piss or drool. Hours passed. His mind raced. Dawn began to throw weird shapes around the room and Victor came down enough to notice his surroundings a bit more clearly.

"Why am I here?" he thought again.

"Oh My God!" he gasped, "Not Indiana!"

In a flash it all came back to him. Not only had he lost Paris, but he lost Sarah, Seattle, and all his new rave friends due to temporary but complete insanity. Sarah kicked him out of her life forever. He had no recourse but to escape to his parents' house in Indiana. He was sorry. 

Victor still couldn’t remember any event in time between September and when he had awoken in a hospital in January. He had missed the new year. Or had he? He wasn’t sure. All he could remember was his initial panic at awakening in a hospital. He ran nearly three miles from the UW hospital to Sarah’s Greenlake apartment only to find it empty. All his clothes, computers, and stereo equipment were gone. At least his car was still parked out back in the driveway. 

On the kitchen table was a note:

Dear Victor,

 I am leaving you forever. Here is a check for $1,000. I sold your stuff for you.  Don’t think you can get me back ever, because you can’t. I am up in Vancouver with Fred.

With intense loathing and hatred eternally,

-Sarah Smile

Victor flashed back to his last memory of Sarah, fucking her, but he couldn’t remember very clearly. It must have been during his insanity. He called to her but she just looked at the ground and then looked away, avoiding eye contact due to the shame of embarrassment for the both of them. It was the last time he could remember gazing upon her sweetness.  She was more beautiful than ever but now she didn’t love him anymore. Feelings of orange and red and white pain criss-crossed through his brain and his heart stopped for seconds and then sunk into his chest.

What had he done?

He couldn't remember, but it must have been bad.  Victor was normally very respectful of others, and wasn't used to playing the asshole, so he was confused.

He had a strange feeling that strange drugs were involved and the Seattle police might even be looking for him.

Then he flashed back and remembered some ‘friends’ trying to put him in the hospital. He considered re-committing himself, but he was truly much better now and didn't need his mind further probed by quacks who believed lithium was a good drug. Victor could teach them a thing or two about good drugs.

But now he missed Sarah and her personality and he doubly missed having sex with her. They had been friends before they were lovers. Even if nothing pertaining to the greater mysteries of life had ever been discovered by having a go. Sex is like eating, dancing, thinking, drugging, or dreaming. It's bloody necessary at times. 

When Victor was younger, he preferred sleeping with people he had no attachment to, like a friend's sister or some random girl he would meet and then ditch at the mall next to the arcade. His early childhood had been sexually loose but American Society made him feel repressed and ashamed of his libido.

When Victor turned 16 he pretty much figured out the Orwellian horror of modern existence and turned to the only powerful narcotic available to him, marijuana.

In a high school paper he once wrote:

"Cannabis is the root of Eastern culture, the root of American counter-culture, and the future of all mankind. To deny this is to deny truth, justice, and beauty. I don't think this needs any more explaining? Give me pot over Jesus any day."

The teacher was young and seemingly hip and Victor was hoping to score with her. He was both suspended and ostracized when he kissed her in class. He vowed never to go to school again but relented when he got a scholarship award to the University of Paris. Victor dropped out because school, even in Paris, still sucks.

By 9:00AM, thoughts pertaining to real life began encroaching on his conscious brain. He was in a double-bad catch-22. He had to live in Indiana and deliver gooey pizzas to keep himself supplied with the necessary chemicals to counteract the American way of life, but he also needed to save money to eventually move back to Seattle.

His friends would hopefully forgive him for having one too many pill, or whatever he did that was so terrifyingly horrific. But first he had to figure out exactly what he did.  It must have been some mass conspiracy. He called his mate Groovinkim who immediately hung up on him. He then called his mate Julian. He too, hung up on him. He then called Sarah at her parent’s home. No answer. He attempted to page her. Disconnected. Next he attempted to call his buddy Flowerchild. Flowerchild would never hang up on him.

But Flowerchild had left his wife and kids and moved to Goa. He tried to reach his friend Megan. Her boyfriend Dick answered and said she couldn't come to the phone. Victor suddenly realized that although he met literally hundreds of kids in Seattle and several adults, he never learned any of their last names.

No one loved him there enough to track him down or visit him at the hospital. 

The kids he loved in Seattle had all abandoned him like so much used jet trash on Boeing Field. Victor then surfed the web and looked for any Seattle news about himself. 

A few broken links appeared. Nothing.

His web site had been disconnected. He must now save money and return to reclaim what he had lost. Return to Seattle as a sane and wisened master of acid house and keyboard riffs. He would join a band. No, he would start a band. And people would give him free coke at parties and he could make a living by building databases for small Internet start-ups.

But Victor sucked at saving money because he was kind of a drug addict. Still, it's hard to score good drugs in Indiana. Most Hoosiers don't know shit about good drugs, and the quality is some of the lowest anywhere in the world. Goa has pot that puts the user in an all-day trance (hence Flowerchild's relocation).

Holland has E-bombs so good you can talk to God. In France the red wines give you both energy and spirit and often doesn't even cause hangovers. In Thailand, the opium costs pennies and makes you forget that you were ever born. Sweet Bliss.

Sometimes Victor believed the best drug in Indiana was putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger, but would settle for nitrous oxide. He felt more and more like a tourist who had lost his guidebook. He had nothing to live for. Or was there something else to live for that he was forgetting about?

More sane thoughts began to creep into his head. He began to wonder if he would make his 3 o'clock job interview at Pizza Hut. He had only been home in Indiana a few days,  but desperately needed to start saving some money and living a bit cleaner so he could continue to write his political philosophy.

Yes, that was it!

He was living so he could finish his book.

The real purpose of his existence was not partying but coding his masterpiece. His book. The book. It would save humanity from religion and science. It would feed the homeless and give rest to the wicked (for rest is what they cannot have). It was a bit of a stretch but what else is there to live for? Ecstasy and sunshine and girls and music and naked beach parties and most importantly good friends and good drugs.

Victor then began to recount more of his life...

Victor's parents were overall pretty normal folks. They had attended Indiana State University, had an over-fondness for 60’s music, and they knew the pleasures of smoking marijuana and lovemaking. 

When Victor was a lad his parents would hump regularly, whether he was sleeping with them or not. Sometimes he would stand at the open bedroom door and watch...

his daddy feed his mommy grapes in her vagina and then suck them out one by one. They never did that when he was in there, but they sure seemed to like it. Mommy would light a cigarette and moan. Next Daddy would climb on top of her and stick his penis in mommy's vagina and they would moan. 

Victor adored pot and smoked it almost daily from the age of 14 when his parents had first let him try it. He learned to like alcohol as well as he grew older into his teens.

Alcohol increases promiscuity and fun but most people are too thick to get it. They think when they wake up hungover its all good to act like effete assholes or Christians again and make everyone feel guilty for living. Victor couldn't understand this and fought against this hideous decadence by ruthlessly declaring war on his fellow citizens mindsets. He would get drunk enough for all of humanity to be happy. 

When he discovered Ecstasy (MDMA) in Europe, he also discovered that alcohol wasn't the best route to enlightenment. Being high on ecstasy is like God performing fellatio on your soul. Back then no one knew what E was, or even if it was safe. No one cared very much though because it was way beyond the fun of the bar scene. Victor felt like a pioneer and gobbled every E he could get his hands on.

Rumors of synthetic heroin and reduced spinal fluid abounded but Victor didn't care; he knew what he liked. Chemical spelunking is a dangerous job but necessary for Evolution. The party-people have little concern putting off the future for the moment. Victor believed he was better off dead than staying away from raves and ecstasy anyway.

Drug use is not a crime so much as conformity is. Law is just a word with many meanings, all of them contradictory, ugly, and oppressive.

Words have nothing in common with reality. Words are just things that people use to make excuses for their actions with. Words are mostly around to sell you things and put together phrases. Phrases are just random words strung together by rules that have no meaning, only a weak cultural significance.
Rules possess a loose structure but no reality. Fuck the American government when they say people under 21 can't drink alcohol. Fuck them in the ass with no KY Jelly or foreplay. Fuck them with a splintery 2 x 4. Fuck them in public tied to an upside down cross. Fuck them with a Boeing 747. They are fucking up our children's souls, the only things that matter!
Victor was a writer from birth. Bully kids would wait for him behind the garbage dumpsters where they got their inspiration. He didn't know why he was a writer but it seemed to him a better occupation than delivering pizzas to people. Not everyone gets to choose his occupation but the ones that do should choose wisely.

Victor was hard at work on his political philosophy, entitled Twenty Ways to Rape a Sheep. He explained to everyone that his book would truly contain all the fundamentals of human knowledge. He would read or listen to anyone who grabbed his attention and simply copy and edit. He would put together a plan to get humanity out of its two thousand year decline.  

Victor tried to write much the same way a DJ makes an acid house record. He develops layers of sense and nonsense and in the interplay there is indescribable beauty. Beauty is truth and truth can save your soul. (But truth can't be written or communicated; it must be felt-up and titillated, excited, and then sucked like a nipple).  

Truth is a tryst with a gorgeous teen beauty of indeterminate sex that you can never tell anyone about- even your best friend or yourself.

Victor felt he had to get it into words any way possible. Thus we are left with his chef d’oeuvre... 20 Ways to Rape a Sheep.

20 opens with a chronology of famous sheep-rapists throughout history and correlates them to the great thinkers and philosophical movements throughout history. Victor was supposed to have the book completed by the millennium, but he disappeared completely sometime in late 1997.  

The thought of completing the work excited Victor so much it was the main motivational force in his life with the exception of parties and ecstasy and sex with multiple anonymous partners. His heart ached like a junkie's tummy in withdrawal.  

If Victor doesn’t turn up soon with the finished book, this story might have to suffice as a cheap substitute.  

I feel strongly that Victor is not dead however. So I am writing this piece as an appetizer. There is still plenty of time to give everyone enough time to wake up and take part. The Merging is not scheduled until 2012.

20 Ways to Rape a Sheep must finish Nietzsche's job of ridding humanity's collective mind sludge of dogmatic religion and psychology. 

Ripe young girls with pert breasts and knowledge of chemistry will take off their clothes and fuck me in streets and feed him pills,

or so Victor kept telling himself.

Poor Victor wasn't feeling in his right mind and he wondered if it had been the mushrooms he had taken. But had he taken any mushrooms? What had he taken? This was too strong to be a flashback...

He was not sitting on his beloved comforter-enhanced futon mattress in Seattle but lying on his living room sofa at his real home, in Indiana, in the place where he grew up. The place he hated above all others, the nightmare place that roused him awake from his kindest dreams, the place of his ultimate grounding and reality.

Evansville, Indiana, USA. Could any place be more hideous?

Now he remembered even more. He had spent his $1,000 on a massive three-day euphoria/hell. He was forced to drive the 1500 miles from Seattle to Evansville with barely more than gas money. He managed to trade a couple hits of ecstasy to some pimply ravers from Madison, WI for some money to get some gas and cigarettes outside Des Moines. He ate a 12" veggie Subway on wheat and threw it up with up blood. The voices in his head became so strong that he couldn't differentiate them from his own thoughts. He pulled the car over and cried for mercy.

The voices in his head were chanting, pronouncing the sounds “soo la sen” over and over again like a mantra. It was a place, apparently. To Victor it sounded vaguely Lakota or Eskimo. But what does it mean?

He freaked and ate three hits of blotter to clear his head and give him the strength to drive. He felt better almost immediately and began to trip out nice and hard until to words " Soo la Sen " appeared written in the fluffy clouds above him.

This triggered a previous memory in which he heard those words previously. It was from the Sexydelic collective in Bellevue, the night Vurt Vlassic drowned in Lake Washington, the night...

Who or What are the Sexydelics, you ask?

The Sexydelics were a collective of Bellevue kids that had gotten over the prudish teenage American concept of never fucking each other senseless and being free. A bunch of them had dropped out of high school to become amateur porno stars and shamans. They were all young, uninhibited, and knew the inherent dollar value of a cum-drenched teenager. Due to their exceptional revolutionary fervor, we Supersloths contacted them but found them too young, drugged and loved-up to really aid them in their quest. Victor dug their vice as well and would spend weeks with them partying, meditating, smoking reefer, and watching rented movies.

At an outdoor beach party in Aberdeen, these raver coven kids had introduced Victor to the drinking of ayahuasca, an otherworldly concoction that transports one randomly into another dimension of its choice. It is considered a bad idea to take this if you are not capable of visualizing a perfect chaotic and relative universe. Victor was time-fucked and nauseated by the drug and was certain he had gone completely mental forever. Parties like this were the rule rather than the exception.

One fateful evening the Sexys were holding a beach party at Madison Park, smoking DMT and running around naked covered with mud, screaming and scaring the tourists. That night, a young shaman / DJ named Vurt Vlassic, went berserk and jumped naked and screaming into Lake Washington disappearing  without a trace. His last words were:

"I am going Soo La Sen. I have lost one too many pencils."

The Sexydelics called themselves artists, and I suppose arguably in some ways they were, their chef d'oevre being Naked Rave '94, a highly edited but mostly live video of an illegal rave full of sexy young groovers orally and anally worshipping the members of their adoring and paying public. But this was all the art they did aside from some poorly animated teen fuck video games that sold quite well in Europe and Japan.

Even though they lacked artistic vision and intelligence, Victor loved the Sexydelics and they would feed him and please him often. But they made his Sarah freak out. She was put off by their youth and young American cyber-hipness. Sarah, an Art Historian and junkie, quickly tired of them because she couldn't get any writing done at all with them due to their exceptionally well-stocked medicine cabinets.

Now back in Indiana, land of wheat, pissy beer, and Jesus, Victor felt terrible and weary. It would be at least another three months of psychological rehab until he had the courage to face up to Sarah. She was probably chilling in Vancouver with her junkie friends. She had always loved heroin and now she was an addict. If only he could see her! She would know what was going on.

Tired of freaking out, Victor remembered that he was taking the blotter acid to make him happy and not to make him even more paranoid, sad, and pathetic than he already was.

The Ultraworld was not being nice to him. His superego thought, "I am all alone in the middle of a stupid country and right back in the place where I wanted to get away from forever." His superego was often cruel to him and it made him think of the teenage Freud snorting small mountains of cocaine and fucking his mother.

Why had he left Seattle? He had friends in Seattle, there was a good rave scene in Seattle and they were good drugs in Seattle. That was three good reasons not to leave. His parents would be home in two months and he wanted to split the place shortly after that and attempt to rectify the situation.

He wanted to move back to the rainy land of lattes and microbrews but he had to get a job and earn some cash first so he could afford to get an apartment, buy presents, and write.
His parents being ex-hippies, they never gave him any money and they even used to make him mow the lawn when he was a kid without pay. When he was mowing the lawn he used to imagine the perceived universe as being the singular most ultimate form of torture possible. The very idea of Hell seemed implausible to him because it could simply not be worse than July in his hometown.

To Victor the will to live is simply a subset of general happiness and entertainment. Nobody ever kills themselves at a party. It is always when they are alone and afraid and without hope of ever getting any love again from themselves or anyone else.

"Aspiration is delusion because work is never-ending. Americans laugh at developing countries and never even realize that they have one of the shitiest cultures of all. They are inhibited about their sexuality and recreation, they drive around in their big cars polluting the planet and rot in front of their televisions eating puffed corn balls covered with orange salty cheese powder.

Sure they have money but they always buy stupid fucking stuff with it and eat at ' restaurants' like McDonald's. Many Americans die without ever taking Ecstasy. They live in a free country and a free society yet volunteer willingly to be bound and gagged and ceremoniously sodomized by elected know-nothings with less spirituality than empty plastic bags. Americans elect leaders like they buy beer, thoughtlessly, cheaply, and without much consideration beyond the fizzy bubbles.

No Truth. No Law. No Civilization."  

Victor felt he had to finish the book just like you have to finish a shit on the john. There is no getting up in the middle and messing around with needles and powders and 300 mg doses of MDMA.

Victor wanted to score a part-time .php contract job and move to the Czech Republic, a bohemian heaven with $.50 pilsners. But he could not go without first finishing the book. He would simply be another waste of pilsner over there without status as an underground writer of revolutionary fiction.

Besides, the Czech Republic was not yet wired for fast Internet access and thus it would be impossible to do the necessary research without sneaking in the University. He decided to reside in America until he had coded the cultural virus that would unclog the global constipation of thought and love like an electric kool-aid ecstasy enema.

Victor NEEDED to become a full-time writer and raver. He did not feel his parents were evil, but they wanted him to be a environmental lawyer. To be a writer and raver is to be a public dreamer. There is no reason except fear to become a lawyer. Victor believed that in the future people would denounce Law as decadent and switch to something more meaningful.

A lawyer is a personification of the fear of the future being unjust. People become lawyers because they think there will be a lot of lawsuits or confusing contracts in the future. Thus lawyers are part of the problem and not part of the solution. There is little need for lawyers in a positive society.

Victor didn't fear the future was going to be unjust. He felt the future would be wonderful. He felt it would be full of great DJ's and ecstasy and marijuana and speed and ketamine and jellies and GHB and maybe anything else he could score that he would not get too hooked on.

Addiction is uglier than morality. With an addiction there is too much time and space, too much need.

Time + Space = Shit.

Shit = Need.

Need =  Life.

When you're addicted to something, anything that doesn't satisfy your craving is irrelevant. It's like being a Christian on Sunday, nothing else is going to satisfy your sickness.

William Burroughs wrote in Junky that it takes a whole year to get hooked on heroin. It had merely taken his Sarah one hit. She talked of nothing else for months. She begged Victor to try it. She said it would be fun. Victor relented against his better judgment and got Fred the Junkie Canadian to shoot him up. He ended up dry heaving into the toilet and then nodding in and out of consciousness for five hours. " Am I having fun yet? ", he queried the two of them as they lay in each other's arms softly humming Neil Young songs by the fire.

The whole experience had made him doubly proud to be a child of techno. In fact he had never even openly associated himself with rave culture until heroin. It was so bad and so dead that it made him see that the life he had chosen to lead was an especially blessed one. While opium was obscenely blissfull, heroin was definitely not a recreational grade drug. It was more for people dying of pain in a hospital.

When the rave scene was young so was Victor. He could not help but to muck about with the girls and the E and the feel good vibes of the era. But at a club all the laser lights and the loud music get too intense sometimes. If your mates are having a good time and the music starts to give you a headache and you are miles from home, what can you do?

You have to take another pill so you won't come down and pass out in the gutter with the street filth. So you drop another E-bomb and never get tired and move to the beats that just get bigger and bigger and never stop:

My unconditional love  
Is unconditionally gone
Sometimes coming down is like dying

As tarred lungs and ringing head resume their ache
I plummet back to the planet I hate most
My friends are talking of fluffy things and clouds

I count my money for another hit
Scanning the room for aliens and monsters
Who are willing to sell me another pill

Head starts to pound in time with the music
It's 5AM and everyone is still raving
I am too weak to spank off or dance
So I crawl back to the car and puke

Victor often thought that if he had it all to do over again, he would have went to one of those "progressive" colleges where you can design your own major. Perhaps a small private school out in the woods where he could hide from the city and not be corrupted by it. Out in the woods the trees are evergreen and the professors still believe in ideals and sharpened pencils and notebooks and papers due on specific dates. Like a play or a concentration camp, everything has to be done in specific ways. They "orientated" you and made you feel privileged to share in the experience of being sucked dry of capital and filled up with irrelevant garbage data.

Money exchange is Western bliss
Fuck sex-and-drugs-and-politics

Victor would do one better if he had a second go. He would find a school that would let him major in Rave Culture and minor in Psychedelic Chemistry. He thought of how much money and how many potentially interesting people he could meet with a major like that. He could do the talk shows and pundit circuits for years, maybe start a glossy magazine. What a great way to avoid sleazy-moralistic-nazi-banker types, telling them that you majored in making them irrelevant to the universe.

Victor had problems with his mind. He just couldn't seem to learn how to live with it or without it. Sometimes he blamed it on his alcoholism, sometimes on all the 2CB derivatives he did in Amsterdam, but mostly he blamed it on other people.

His heroin experience had proven positive in one respect. It made him re-evaluate his life and showed him that he could be much worse. Fred the Junkie Canadian was in love with Sarah but he couldn't even make love to her or care for her. He couldn't even care for himself. He was like an adult toddler, constantly shitting his drawers and crying. He would shoot junk to come down and snort coke to go back up. But where was he going otherwise? He was pure living dead, Fred.

He vehemently vowed never to take the easy way out, to say 'no' when he meant 'yes',  and to say 'yes' to as much as humanly possible.

And then it happened to him, Victor caught a glimpse of the Ultraworld. And then he lost it- lost his ego. Lost his mental afterbirth. Momentarily reborn an orgasm. And then and orgasm of terror. He was face to face with Satan. He pushed him aside and laughed. Victor knew everything. He was God. It hurt badly to be God. God is full of the pains of the world and suffers intolerably. Satan laughs at responsibility and virtue. Satan invented crack and meth. Suddenly, Victor figured out what went wrong in his life. He heard a voice; it was his own...

I am Victor Ulkin. My mind started out a tabla rasa, got educated against its will, and then reverted back to its original state.

When I am high I see the future as it really is- a carnival of loving energies. When I come down life seems a blank waste of time that could be better spent dead and numb. When I am sober I sense reality as it is not- evil cannibalistic anus-raping clown on parade in a world that does not want them. Vogons. 

I mix up a few drinks and pretend not to notice that the only thing keeping me alive was a momentum called pride and the personal embarrassment of suicide.

Always at the last second before I jump off a bridge, hang from a tree, or swallow cyanide, there is no heavenly messenger voice that comes to me. What comes to me is pure fear and greed and addiction. Overcoming these things is what makes us good. But creating Art is what makes us immortal. Art is the only thing can save God from Eternal Obsolescence.

After the charade of life and death is over, the only thing that matters is what I did, what energy I created, and nothing else. 

Most folks I have met in my life seem to pursue respect and pride. This is their primary error. For the pursuit of pride and respect, I think, could be defined as that which makes men out of angels.