What a lousy thing to say, but it’s the truth. My wife asked how I stood there filming in the presence of screaming children and faces gushing blood; all while the heat of a demolished, yet still burning, apartment complex threatened to singe my facial hair.
How?
I didn’t have anything else to do. The first responders arrived mere seconds before I did, and it was far too late to save anyone still inside. All they could do was put water on it, comfort the injured, and keep positive thoughts. I didn’t have a hose, my medical training is decades old, and I’m too honest to lull anyone into a false sense of security.
The life I’ve lived and the jobs I’ve had which prepare me for instances like today: Aerospace, military, law enforcement, and art handler/glorified long-haul truck driver. In hindsight, I don’t recall much empathy toward anything or anyone since the stroke back in 2013. Before then, I’d walk into a cemetery on an investigation and tear up from the etherical sadness. Perhaps that, plus all the fighting I did for the Sheriff’s Department, topped with a dollop of the Army is why; severing ties with my already numbed sense of fear. I kind of miss being scared sometimes. Scared and hiding still meant safe.
I’d recorded today’s gaming video and played guitar for a bit like most days. Then, I decided to nap a bit during some UAP videos when the house rattled me to my knees. A fraction of a second later, the sound of the explosion brought me back to my senses.
I immediately called for my kid, who responded with a few choice words. No harm; no foul. Shit was blowing up!
I knew in the moment that it was indeed an explosion. I’ve not heard anything like it in my civilian life, but those military memories zipped back to the forefront of my mind in a flash. It’s often a regular occurrence when unsuspecting drivers come upon the sharp curve in our road, so I’m quite adept at recognizing the sound of traffic accidents. This was not one of them.
Next, my thoughts went straight to, “Goddammit, Trump! You’ve done went and pissed off someone with the nuts to hit back!”
Thank goodness it wasn’t a bomb, or a missile, or a missile-bomb, but it may have been something similar.
Warning: This is the part of the piece when things cease to be factual and lean more into the gonzo old bastard with good – yet selective – hearing and a nose for information not pertaining to me or anyone else I recognize. I’m not too sure this is the first such instance in this neighborhood, and, if that’s truly the case, it won’t be the last.
I’m personally surrounded by tons of old properties that are considered to be “Bishop Arts New”. That’s when someone buys up a ton of relics in my neighborhood, slaps on a fresh coat of paint, and triples the rent. I believe the same entity that owns dozens of properties along my street also owns/owned the exploded complex.
How do I know this? Because new money tends to brag a bit too loudly. Without fail.
Throughout my comings and goings, I’ve noticed a golf cart in my neighborhood always carrying the same two individuals: A Hispanic man and woman. One morning, when I was enjoying my cup, bowl, and guitar soul at sunrise, she pointed directly at me in passing and inquired with her fat mouth – audibly chewing her own cheeks as though she’d not been fed in minutes – “Do we own this property, too?”
“No,” he replied. “Not yet.”
First of all, Captain Bitch-Ass, my stuff ain’t for sale. Second of all, your mush-mouth partner in skewed crime brought your shenanigans to my attention, which was once referred to as the world’s most annoying, human-magnifying glass.
I know these same individuals manage multiple properties for a single owner, because they can’t keep quiet about it while scooting up and down my street. I mean, at least have the decency to say it in Spanish so my cracker ears won’t know who & how you’re scamming!
Now, by piecing together a year or so worth of random conversations and watching what they believe to be is random movements in the vicinity of my modest castle, the same idiotic contractors who struck the gas line to make today’s complex explode are performing work on the other properties. Well, all but one; possibly.
I’m surrounded by shanties straight out of a Mad Max film with a fresh coat of whatever in the fuck was on sale at Sherman-freaking-Williams. I also can’t help but recall how many of their newer properties sit atop the sites of multiple mystery fires.
Somewhere, there’s a white man scamming everyone and making bank off of all of this, but I digress. As they say in the Austin Powers’ films, “I can’t officially back that up with paperwork.”
Still, I bet I’m mostly right.
Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. Don’t let your kids watch that video; the news is much less personal. My own wife – who’s attended seven years’ worth of horror conventions with me – didn’t make it through the ten minutes. Also, why would kids be looking at my website? Get out of here, young’un’s! Yah, mule! Scat!
There. I’ve done my part. I’ve said my piece and shot it out into the universe for all the world to see. If said universe sees fit, it will point the right folks to the right clues. It’s doubtful, though. It’s algorithms, or I’m black-listed by Mother Twat-Waffle, or both. Cool thing is, it’s a breath of fresh air.
“Let the past die; kill it if you have to.” – Kylo Ren
She hugged me before chugging off to bed, and then I realized what she meant to say all along. If the explosion were any larger, it could’ve been the end for our boy and me. On the cool, he was out the door with his camera rolling right behind me.
“I just put all my bad memories in a pile. This one will inevitably be covered up by the next.”
There’s still eleven people missing. I’d like to argue that my empathy is working fine and dandy, because the energy in the air around me plucks my heart strings like a Les Paul. Entire bloodlines possibly ended today. The choppers still circle ten hours later.
Now, I’m jumping at the slam of every car door; the one’s they’ve let through. Police are still manning the barricades outside.
I’ve decided not to repost the video, but you can find it previously. I’ve warned you. It’s not riddled with gore, but it’s heartbreaking. Positive light to lost loves who search hopelessly beyond the veil. I know you’re here. I wish I could help you.
I just noticed that several pieces of our art have shifted. For a house containing two members of the fine-art field, it’s criminal. Seriously, that’s from the shock wave of the explosion. Too close for my tastes.
The Gonzo Wolf 
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