Conspiracy in Yellow (a fiction fragment)

   So what follows is the beginning of a King in Yellow mythos story that I tried my hand at. There was more to it than this, but it was lost when the lizard people wiped my computer. 
  If for some reason of all the unwieldy blocks of text out on the internet you decide to read this one, feel free to let me know whether I should continue it or not in the comments below. Or let me know that I'm a nazi faggot shitlord and that you banged my mom, I've been on the internet a while and have a thick skin.

CONSPIRACY IN YELLOW

(part 1?)

by J. A Rodgers

   I have seen true madness, and I have no doubt of its existence. True madness creeps upon our formally great nation like a plague, and there is one being that is responsible for this onset of insanity. It is through much research, and by rejecting so called proper news outlets that I began to see the pattern. 

   Not too long ago I had been blind like everyone else, but recently I have found the truth.

   While I was working on a rather large thematic installation I had fallen off a ladder and injured myself. In addition to the gaping head wound I lost my job over traces of THC in my blood revealed by a drug test.

   With some time out of work while I recovered from my injury, I began to do some research as to what could be causing all the desolation in our society.

   Oh all those long nights, the swelling and pain in the back of my skull. Feeling my scalp strain against the staples in it, my bong in my hand as I scoured the internet for answers.

   At first all I found was the typical explanations: chem-trails from government planes, poisons in the vaccinations given to our children. Yet I knew that there was something further than this, all of this information can be regulated and controlled, so it must be a double blind.

   I had no doubt that such woes as the ones listed above were not helping our current climate of destruction, and of spiritual sickness. However I knew that there must be something more. On a strange corner of the web there is a message board dedicated to only the most devout truth seekers, and it is there that I found a user named Cassilda'sConspiracy. 

  Through a few brief exchanges with each other over private messaging Cassilda'sConspiracy deemed that I was an honest seeker of answers, not a potential enemy, and she let me in on the true secret

.
  Everything that is wrong in the world, wars, outbreaks of deadly diseases, school shootings, racial tensions. All of these things and more are all constructed in the service of a single entity. All of our politicians, and world leaders are in service to this being either consciously or unconsciously. The influence of this being, this ruler of humanity, has been shaping our world according to its strange whims for centuries. This entity exists somewhere in a dimension that is close to ours, but impossible to reach by conventional means of travel. However, doors are being researched to be opened, that is why CERN is working so diligently on the Hadron Collidor. There are other doors, but they are temporary, and woe to anyone who finds one. 

  After some extensive correspondence Cassilda'sConspiracy told me that she had run out of answers, but that before we parted ways she wanted to leave me with a gift. It was then that she sent me a .pdf document, a document that when I read it revealed the ultimate truth to me. This document is a transcription of an ancient play, and it is the ultimate authority on the human condition. The name of the play is "the King in Yellow".

    I did not know that when I began to read the KingInYellow.pdf that I was reading something more important than the Bible, the Quaran, and the Bhagavad Gita all combined. How was I, a lowly laborer with calloused hands and an injured skull deemed worthy to receive this? I'll never know, I only know that there is nothing, nothing but the King in Yellow sitting on his throne is dim Carcosa where the stars shine black. His influence is impossible to stop.

    The first act of the play was marvelous, and not so sinister. I have always considered myself a bit of cretin, and incapable of appreciating high art, but even the hardest of hearts can be softened by the first act. I should have stopped there however, for upon completing the second act I was suddenly stricken with fever.  

   I do not know how long the fever lasted, but I know that it was a great deal of time before I came to my senses. During the course of this agonizing ordeal my head felt as if it would split at the site of its injury. My brain swelled, and my body raged. I drank alcohol to attempt to ease the pain, but it did nothing except cause me to cry like a child. At one point I attempted to go to the doctor, but I could not find my front door. Curled in a ball I cowered in the corner of my dark tenement, I called out to my brother who had died in a car wreck, I held communion with my mother who died of cancer. 

   All the while my thoughts could not leave Carcosa, as if my spirit itself had left my body and was travelling across the strange lands without me. At some point I knew I was being watched, because whatever the intentions of Cassilda'sConspiracy by gifting me the play, whether benevolent or sinister. That by reading the second act of the King in Yellow I had brought my existence to the attention of the dreaded ruler. 

  This is not because I am in anyway more special than the average human. It seemed to me more akin to the way that a beetle writhing in a terrarium might peek the interest of an entomologist in a white coat. Yet my writhing had drawn the interest of something far more terrible donned in a yellow robe.

  Where I live is at the edge of town, about forty five minutes from the truly urban areas, a low rent building with crumbling architecture. The outside lock is of modern design, but the inside locks are antiquated key holes with lever style door knobs beneath them. During the most awful throes of my illness, and at the peak of my (justified) paranoia I became particularly intent upon the door furthest from the corner in which I lay. Covered in old sweat and surrounded by empty bottles, this door was all that I could see. My surroundings had taken on a very alien nature.  Whether because of hallucinations from my tortured mind, or  because I was actually somewhere other than my abode I was not sure. The walls of the room squirmed with strange fluidity, and oozed in towards me creating a narrow hallway surrounded by darkness. My world tilted on its axis, and my vision twisted the door as if it were pulled by a hypnotist's spiral. 

  
  Something was on the other side of that door, that I was sure of. The more I stared at the door, the only identifiable object in the tempest around me, the more certain I became that whatever was on the other side of the door was watching me through the keyhole.  

Resurrection!

  " Every night I listen to the beating of my wife's heart, it is so loud that I can hear it with my ear pressed against the cold soil of her grave."

-Journal of Solomon Ludlow, November 8th 1894

  Speaking of graves I think this blog is going to try and scratch itself through the lid of it's coffin, and emerge in to the fresh cemetery air of.... the internet. I think my metaphor was getting mixed up there.

  So when I first started this blog I was a know it all college kid, who was 'too kool for u'. Now I am a chronically depressed "adult" who subjects strangers on bar stools to rants about existential nihilism. I'm just that pleasant of a guy.

  My English Creative Writing major turned out to be really useful, and now I have a great job in an entirely unrelated field. Manufacturing has been fairly good to me though, because I like being around dangerous equipment, and I have a hard time sitting still. I run horizontal CNC machines, specializing in waterjets, but I dabble in plasma cutters, and routers as well.

 

  A major change occurred in my life in January of 2015 in which my twin brother Mathew Rodgers passed away from cancer. So now I am a twinless twin, and may write on that some in the future.

  Well no one goes in to anything as a pro so my freshly revived corpse of a blog might have to shamble around as a ghoul for a little bit before I can pump it full of necromantic energies and evolve it in to a lich or some other form of higher undead. Like some form of twisted pokemon, except I don't play pokemon, and I despise mainstream pop culture. So don't expect too many references like that. Although there may be a future post on how much I fucking hate superhero movies.

   So the take away from this post is that it is a statement of intent. If things go as planned then you will find posts that usually fall under one of three types: a discussion or review of some form of entertainment, a public journal post, or a post of some of my decidedly amateurish fiction. 

Koffin Kats/ the first beer of the evening

is a Coors Light 8 oz can. I'm trying to save some of my scratch so that I can go out of town for the Fourth of July this weekend, so I gotta stick to the domestics.
Life is going well now, I haven't blogged in awhile, but as per the advice of one of my classmates I am going to begin again.
Honestly the thought of it makes me quite excited.
I plan on changing the content of the blog a little from what it previously held. I will continue to write about my personal experiences and about myself. Oh the vanity of American youth.
However in addition to writing about those things I will also including content on the things that I love more than anything else: rock n' roll, booze, and monsters.
Perhaps at some points I will also post some fiction in the blog.
Yesterday the Koffin Kats new album "From our Hands to Yours" a split-side EP with the 12 Step Rebels was released, and I am currently waiting for it to arrive in the mail. As soon as I get my copy I will post a review. To lead up to this momentous occasion I will be posting a review of all of the Koffin Kats previous releases and the 12 Step Rebels "Go! Go! Graveyard Rockin'!"
To those of you who do not know who the Koffin Kats are, they are a rock n' roll band composed of Vic Victor (vox and electrified upright), Ian (electric guitar and backing vox), and Eric Balls Man (drums and backing vox). Stylistically they are similar to the psychobilly movement (http://www.wreckingpit.com/psycho/faq.php3) for those who don't know).
Listening to the Koffin Kats is like sex for the ears, their music is pure rock adrenaline, their stage show is amazing I have seen them three times now, and they are awesome to their fans.
I have been following them since they came out in 2003, and last year when I went and saw them they came back to my place and had screwdrivers with me. They are some cool ass motherfuckers.
So to those of you who do not know the magic go look them up right now!
To change the pace a bit I will now briefly discuss my life because I'm on my third beer of the evening.
It's great.
I have a wonderful girl friend named Tiffany, I inherited my grandfather's Nissan Frontier, I'm learning bass guitar (I play the drums already), and I'm working on a novella about the Frankenstein monster fighting a circus run by vampires. Sometimes things seem dreary, but I just keep my head high.
I wish that there was more rock n' roll in Orlando, and I'm totally ready to graduate, but my grades aren't so hot, however things will work out in the long run.
Oh! And I've adopted a rottweiler mix named Lilith, she's the cutest dog ever!
So I will cease my rambling of inanities and leave with a joke.
Q. Why are necrophiliacs so happy? A. Cause there ain't nothing better than cracking open a cold one.

10 Minute Object Writing: "My Boots"

My boots are black with paint and caulking stains on the toes of them. They are Magnum XLR 3 or some fancy title like that. They are made for walking, sorry I couldn't resist an allusion to such a popular song. Everyone was thinking it anyway. The toes are made of pleather and I polish them occasionally. I have owned at least three or four other very similar pairs of boots. Boots similar to this pair have protected my feet against broken glass, broken toilets, vermin.

I wore my pair of Magnum boots most recently repairing horse jumps, which makes me think of a riddle. Staring at the toes of my boots, watching the caulking press into the cracks in the wood planks. Sanding off the wood putty, painting. Watching the stuff drip off the brush in gobs and splatters along my toes. Bob always said that I was messy with a paint brush.

I dreamed of it those nights.
My last pair of boots was an identical pair of Magnum XLR 3(s) whatever, I was at the Koffin Kats show. Dad had got me tickets for my birthday. Dancing with some hot little rockabilly girl I tore the sole off of the left boot. I had the boots for two years, and they were getting worn out. I was having fun with the sole came off so I just bought another pair of the exact same boots.

When these boots wear out I'll probably buy another pair, I own tennis shoes also, but sometimes nothing is as utilitarian as boots. And sometimes between consenting adults nothing is quite as sexy as a good pair of boots.

Carcrashes and Crying Girls

I live in a busy part of Orlando right next UCF. There is a street called N. Alafaya Trail, and every day I see a car crash.
There are two crowded apartment complexes parallel to each other on this street, one Pegasus Pointe which I used to live at, and the other Campus Crossings: College Station which I now live at.
There is a intersection between the two of them, a very dangerous intersection. When one stands on the asphalt they can almost hear it whispering lurid tales of broken glass and burnt rubber. If one looks at the concrete and focuses real hard they might even be able to see stains on it, stains from tears cried, stains from blood shed.
I have experiences with car wrecks, every time I stare at a motor vehicle, every time I hear the tell-tale purr of an engine I feel it in the back of my mind. I feel fear, I see the gods of the road bloated in their blood-stained glory. I feel the overwhelming presence of the endless graveyards we call highways. Behind me I swear that the chill on my neck is not some animal reaction, but the breathe of some ghoul made from twisted metal with eyes like headlights.
When I was fifteen I was dating a girl named Veronica, she is a pretty girl that goes by Ronnie.
Ronnie rides horses competitively, and she is very good. I spent so much time with her watching her jump her horse over barred jumps that to this day I still associate love with the smell of horse sweat.
One weekend Ronnie had a horse show that she was competing in. The horse show was taking place in Tampa on the fair grounds next to the Hard Rock Cafe. Her mother, her younger sister, and her were all going to stay in a hotel for the weekend and compete in the horse show during the day. They invited me along and of course I was happy to go, any chance to get away from my oppressive step-father and spend the weekend with the girl I was in love with was a great opportunity.
We left Pasco County on Friday afternoon happily packing into Veronica's mom, Sue's Suburban. I remember sitting in the back seat of the Suburban with Veronica watching as the hilly terrain of Pasco County dissipated around us and turned into the death trap known as I-75.
As much as I would like to claim that I did, I had no premonitions of the horror that was waiting not thirty minutes into my future. Horror that would leave me with nightmares for the rest of my life, horror that would forever ingrain the pale-white of children's bones into my Psyche.
Sue is a good driver she pays attention to the road, I felt quite safe in the back seat of the van and soon I began to feel sleepy. It had been a hard week at high school and I was ready to take a nap. I lay my head in Veronica's lap and tried to sleep as she lovingly rubbed the long brown mess I then called hair. Sleep was elusive and instead I listened to the hum of the road and stole kisses against the inside of Ronnie's thigh.
Suddenly Sue began to break hard and I sat up immediately. Staring ahead I saw it, a small off white car colliding with the median of a construction zone. I stared in shock, unable to believe what I was seeing as the car barrel rolled through the air and children flew out the windows. A young boy and a young girl flew out into the middle of the road sliding across the pavement.
Like an angry monster the black top mutilated the children peeling back skin and muscle as if it were nothing more than paper on a skeleton.
Out the right side of the car flew another little girl she collided with the median and it crushed her skull, she died instantly.
Behind us all the cars were stopped, and we were closest to the wreck. I looked on in horror for a brief moment and then ran out of the car to the children in the road. They were about fifteen yards away and as the came closer to my view I saw how bad it really was. A man had crawled from the wreckage and was screaming nonsense.
The young boy had a compound fracture in his leg, his knee had no skin on it at all and I could see his bones gleaming ugly in the sun. He was cut up horribly from the cruel road and was bleeding profusely from his head, I feared that he might have suffered horrible head trauma. He was screaming.
The little girl was in similar shape, she wasn't screaming though she was in absolute shock. I remember the wave of revulsion I felt as I watched her idly peeling her finger nails off asking over and over again.
"Is this a dream? Is this a dream? Is this a dream?"
Ronnie, her sister, Sam, and Sue had all gotten out with me, but I didn't know where they were. All I knew was the atrocity in front of me, stricken with panic I ran to the backed up traffic and banged frantically at the window of the first car I came to. The window of the car rolled down to reveal a middle aged woman sitting in the passenger seat.
"Call an ambulance!" I said, my voice cracked with emotion, "It's bad, it's really fucking bad. I think someone's dead, and the other two are dying."
The woman didn't make eye contact with me, she just nodded her head.
Then I went to the Suburban, Sue the ever strong rationalist (God bless her forever) had taken the children and put them in van. They were in the back seat, bleeding and crying, Sue had me hold ice to their wounds.
The panicked man was there also, saying nonsense talking about taking Sue's van and driving to the hospital. It got to the point that I feared that if an ambulance did not arrive soon that the man would soon become violent.
We tried to keep the children lucid, I tried to talk with the little boy about how it didn't look so bad, and that I had a pretty bad "boo-boo" on my foot (a result of a recent battle with staph infection). Sam and Ronnie also helped, holding ice, trying to calm the children down. Sue told the little girl that it was just a dream.
"Oh..." The little girl said, and fell quiet.
Overhead the news helicopters circled like buzzards, kicking up sand and debris. The cameramen held their cameras in one hand and stroked the dicks to the carnage with the other.
Eventually an ambulance arrived and emergency paramedics began their work. I remember the way that the bald paramedic in his white garb carried the little girl, there was no compassion in his hardened features. He looked like a butcher, not a life saver.
The little girl looked him in the eyes and pathetically asked him, "Is this a dream."
"No." The paramedic said and took her into the ambulance as she began to have a fit of hysterics.
The little boy was carried off in a similar fashion and I took a bottle of saline solution from the back of the van. I desperately scrubbed the interior of the car praying that the blood would give way to my pathetic administrations.
I then scrubbed the blood off my hands, I felt like lady Macbeth getting rid of the sticky red substance seemed to be impossible. A paramedic walked by and laughed at me. He laughed at the wild look in my eyes, and the desperation in which I tried to rid myself of the little boy's life sustaining fluid.

XXX

Years of nightmares later I am eighteen and going for a drive to rid myself of the haze that the medicine that dictated my mood put me in. I was driving my 1993 Ford Probe, a faithful companion, and truly wonderful car that I had lovingly titled Dani Exotic.

I was in Seffner outside of the Publix plaza that has Game Stop and Dunkin Donuts in it, I had just finished eating three strawberry donuts and was lighting my pipe (for digestion). Taking a left turn behind a slow-moving school bus I felt an impact and heard a titanic roar.
For a brief moment I had no idea of what just happened, and then I looked to my left to see a brown pick up truck having spun out not too far away from me.
The front of my car had been ripped off, my car totaled, and I felt the ugly gods of the street leering at me.
However I'm getting tired and this story needs to be continued on another day. My next post will be Car crashes and Crying Girls Pt.2.

On Writing

When I'm writing the computer screen is glowing, the room is filled with music, everything from the mad techno throb of Alien Sex Fiend and My Life With a Thrill Kill Kult to the heart wrenching tunes of Portuguese fados. I'm typically wired from head to toe on coffee and cigarettes, I'm alone I can't write around people.

I ruin my keyboard when I write, I slam out words too fast, too hard, the staccato click of my keyboard almost competes with the noise of the music. I try and justify my actions, I try and justify my senseless detail and poor grammar. I try to claim that I write of higher human nobility, that I write of things of substance, but the only substance around is all the different things pumping in my veins... if you get what I mean.

In school I was a maverick, I was the kid who showed up to class everyday hungover or stoned. I had a mohawk and I thought it was cool... maybe it was, maybe it wasn't, but I had one anyway. I wore a leather jacket and stunk of cigarettes, I tried to have sex with any girl that was even mildly attractive. Most of the time I didn't succeed, sometimes I did.

Sometimes I was manic, sometimes I wouldn't sleep for days I would do things that were juvenile and stupid. Sometimes I was god and my fingers were my host of angels.

But most of the times I was depressed, I held onto sadness like a lover, I preached the gospel of Oblivion and practiced what I preached. I was a burning ball of nihilistic fury, I was also a pathetic cry for help that no-one could offer. I saw road signs sandwiching the void, I saw girls as tunnels, and I saw sugar as salt.

I saw the written word as escape, I devoured books, one after the other, sometimes two or more novels in a day. Then I went home and wrote, I would sit on my porch smoke my pipe and write with my cat on my lap. My cat is a skiddish little creature named Bruce Wayne who doesn't live up to his namesake... nothing ever does. I would write two thousand words a night, I wrote a collection called the "Memoirs of the Violated", short stories of despair and terror. I wrote a novella, I wrote half a novel, but my inner censor would always mess me up.

My computer crashed, my mom and step-father recovered the data, but they don't really pay much attention to me and haven't taken the ten minutes of the day that it would take to send me my stories back. So I kinda slumped, I still kinda am...

I'm going to college now, I don't have a mohawk anymore I have a very short hair cut. I go to campus everyday and attend classes, I bum cigarettes off of pretty girls and try to get their phone numbers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. I got in a car crash so I don't have a car anymore, it's a major bummer and the economy is too messed up to find a part-time job. I ride the bus from my apartment to the campus everyday, even if I don't have class. I'm broke all the time, but I don't feel too bad about it, I'm sure things will get better.

Sometimes I try and lie to myself, I try to tell myself that at one time I had everything, but it's not true. Aside from lacking a car and a job I have more now than I ever have. I'm working for a good education, I have good friends, and one day I'll have a good job. But no matter what happens I plan on writing until the day I die.