Rape U

Campus Safe Space

Founded in 1846 by Timothy Rape, an Asylum Doctor who specialized in non-consensual therapies, Rape University has grown into what US News World report has called " An abomination filled with abominations, it is a national shame, and I don't think I am being too harsh, a crime against humanity." Our campus is situated deep in the Ozarks, surrounded by the raw natural beauty of dense woods, isolated swamps, forgotten caves and decommissioned sewage systems, which are complimented by our cutting edge campus, from soundproof dorm rooms to its darkened library staffed by only the deafest and blindest librarians available. Rape University is stepping into the 21st first century with eyes forward, living up to our founders motto "Its going to happen". From our champion football team the Sabines, to its world class wrestling team making their adversaries squeal " Rape U!" is on every students lips. As our Provost, Ida Rape said " People respond a lot of different ways when someone says Rape U, but I am pegging each and everyone of you, every day, whether you like it or not, as the kind of students, bright eyed and with the prettiest mouths I have ever seen, who will grab the world by its throat and Rape the hell out of it!" using the campus slang for taking what you want by any means necessary.

Corduroy Panzer

“Magic Man wasn’t about Hitler!” Krieg shouted, as he shouted everything when he was on one of his meth’ d out Taxi-man binges, one of his more successful multitasking schemes.

“I thought everything was about Hitler, you made music a video to “Magic Man” which prominently displayed Nazi imagery, black and white photos and newsreel photos of Hitler and swastikas melting into Chrysanthemum patterns  and Ying Yang symbols” I said, wishing this was one of Gorta’s days behind the wheel, and my commitment to Esoteric Hitlerism, though the ancient vellum originals of the Vedic traditions, which resided in a lockbox within a safety deposit box  in the family bank had demanded investigation, was temporarily questioned.

“It’s a metaphor! Also the use of form constants is meant to illicit a palpable senses of awe and wonder, the particulars are immaterial” he said as his eyes alternatively bulged and the veins about his face and neck throbbed to a silent beat.

“A metaphor for what! Missing my stop?” I said, exhausted only an hour and a half into my day.

“ The nature of a Buddha, the wisdom of violence, contemplation of the middle path and the ley lines of our lives and how great men cause them to converge in intricate yet predictable patterns”  he explained as he jerked the wheel passionately to the right pulling a 360 and blasting diagonally into a back alley and throwing me my consignment, which I stuffed into my messengers bag as I exited the Taxi as he tore away into a narrow warren, thinking we had had the same conversation a week earlier about “Behind Blue Eyes.” Then again isn’t everything about Hitler.

Whether your pro-Hitler, anti-Hitler, Hitler positive, Hitler negative, receptive to your Hitler side, or ashamed of it, that man put a funny mustache and some strange ideas in all of us, his post-modernist side, a room filled to the ceiling with eyeglasses, that is an installation, meth fueled  barb wired blitzkrieg, that’s metal. When he sits down with Buddha, Moses, Aristotle and the rest of histories teachers he is the asshole teacher that fails you till you rise to spite him, what were the Jews doing before him besides playing the world’s smallest violin, expertly mind you, but still, if you are going to call yourself G-d’s chosen you can’t take shit from no one, and he crafted an Eichmann just for them, their very own rage piñata. The Slavs, their name means slave but like the Mongols before him he taught them the price of subservience, hell a rifle for every two soldiers, you have to want your people to survive to fight like that.

Harlem schools, monuments, half rotting hulk, carved of juvenile belligerence, Ms. Kathy waiting at the door, first name before the last, bottom rail on top, brown children everywhere.

“No, donuts today?” Ms. Kathy asked.

I do try and pull a Dexter once and a while, good first season stuff, reveling in the masks we all wear, Huck Finn shit, but Donuts aren’t cheap, nothing is, according to the laws of relativity, that’s right, they have even figured out how to Jew reality.

Sign in. Get called a bad teacher, mention Rome, eat lunch, explain basic economics to a dead eyed retard. Puff. Puff. Go home…Unless, you want sniff out weakness, the Public School system is rife with it, broken families, abusive alcoholics, rape, violence etc.,etc. These people need drugs, a drug, some methylated amphetamine, better grades, awake with the will to fight, like putting a straight razor to the neck of the anthropomorphized “Fuck You!”  Wrong for all the right reasons.

Psychobilly Massacre Part III

   I continued " Well, you know that fellow, Gabe was his name, the fellow who was all 'constitution this' and 'this is morally wrong, that'  when you came into town, the one you dragged to death as a sign of dominance, very effective mind you, sure got an eye for the dramatic, well dontcha know, he was the neighborhoods loveable drug dealer, mostly weeds and mushrooms and the like, but he stashed a bit of cocaine for special occasions, and, well what better occasion is there then making friends with the new masters of your destiny, so whadda ya say, wanna go get some of the good stuff? share a little of your one pot meth, move past those little pesky differences which make us appear as prey in your eyes?"


One of the piercing encrusted tattooed maniacs began grunting, smacking his chest and leaping about me as the others began to hoot and holler in support until, lighting fast, Casey Jones shovel flashed in front of him, nicking his neck and stopping what was sure to end in ritual dismemberment, which included the ancestral clamps, chains, hooks and the sacred Youtube video upload, no sane man knows the darkness that lies between adorable kittens misjudging their playful jumps and Sponge Bob clips, and no good man would want to.


"Forgive my savage brothers, they get so excited when they hear about the 'Good stuff', you wouldn't deny them a little excitement at its mention, do lead on, the night is growing dark and the evil of man is filling the shadows. Let us go find 'the stash' and spend the night in artificial stimulation till the sun banishes the cruel demons that haunt us all during our daily apocalypse" he said as he lowered his shovel and the human jackal slumped back in a grunting sigh of relief.


He seemed a little too well spoken, a little to put together, perhaps there was a caste system to these bizarre marauders, some creative leading class which organized themes and dealt with "the fuzz." I didn't dwell on it, things could go sour again at any moment, and then its all clamps, hooks, chains and digital recording equipment. I took them to Gabe's former domicile, the upper levels gutted by fire and it reeked of piss, shit and booze and as we moved past the unhinged front door another sickly sweet scent assaulted my senses. Gabe's torso with its one remaining arm had been placed on a crude shrine made of beer bottles, cinder blocks and the shattered remains of his once magnificent entertainment system. A doll's face had been stretch over his pulverized features and his arm less left side was draped, cape like, in a blue tarp, candles still burned about the shrine attesting to recent traffic to this macabre yet sacred site, though with the sun setting those who had come to pray had vanished.


I came to the basement door, hidden in a hallway closet and defeated it locking system with various permutations of four, two and zero. The comfortable basement chill den was just as I remembered it,  with its assorted jars of plants, fungus, pills,powders and blotters, the walls covered in musically themed posters and tripped out scenes of anthropomorphised suns and animals. I cracked one of the many glow sticks around me to illuminate this festive bounty for guests as they shuffled past me, their chemical hunger almost palpable...

Psychobilly Massacre Part 2

   I approached the band of mo-hawked, tattooed, shot-gun wielding, hollow eyed rustics without fear, like in the old westerns, since to show fear would reveal your malevolent intentions, what does a good man have to fear? Of course that kind of thinking could only apply to those with narrow tribal instincts, unaware of all that could go wrong in communicating oneself, or the shifting caprice of nomadic savages.

    

   The steam punks roving about in their treaded locomotives, led by Casey Jones, driving that train high on cocaine, divining his actions based on a 17^th century brain gurgling in some biological stew of some unknown arcane recipe and meting out rough personal justice with his steam powered pneumatic gauntlet and coal shovel whose edges had been filed razor sharp. They were lounging about the periphery of our once beautiful community, our neighborhood watch Captain tied over its cow-catcher, skin blackish-white and peeling, eye sockets infested with wasps.

  

    I was noticed almost immediately as their double bull fiddle transitioned into a low growling whine as the natural tension of the moment dictated. How they can demand a fearless approach, it doesn't make any sense, everything about them radiates wicked menace, but then I remembered, I was a suburbanite G-d damn it. I adapted my fear into a passive aggressive current, like I have used when dealing with familiar teenagers or minority peers, allowing me to both control through subtle condescending deference and placate with future promises of ice cream, like centuries of our family have done just to get by in this world, like when the first Anglo settled next to a Saxon. They didn't make a big deal about it, even invited them in for some mead once to prove it wasn't a Anglo Saxon thing, but later proving it was after getting drunk at the winter feast and screaming about how Anglos start all the wars in the world and calling their matriarch “sugar bosoms” and then forming an enduring relationship of quietly hate loving each other till their children misogynat, you know, the American way.

“ Well, hi there neighbor! You guys sure look like you are having a bang up ole time her today with your epoxies smelling and mouthwash tasting, but something tells me you fellows might have more fun with, well...Cocaine, maybe, just a thought. Not wearing a wire or anything” I said, feeling stupid, there hadn’t been a transmission from here in weeks and the authorities were complicit, but their flaring nostrils, drooling and manic eyes told me they had liked what they heard.