The Project That Never Was

It’s high 60’s in Dallas. Still not cold enough for my kind of November, but at least the triple digit scorchers are over for at least six months. I’m not complaining, but I still burn citronella to keep the mosquitos away.

There’s a steaming cup of Earl Grey and lemon to my right, and my outdoor Edison bulbs replaced the stars overhead; not that I’d be able to see them anyway. The cloud covered darkness lies beyond, stealthily harboring planes our leaders don’t want us to see. Worst World War ever, if you want my honest opinion.

I got up this morning with a project on my mind. This is one I’d been obsessing over for a bit, but my passion for it wavered from day to day. What is/was it?

You see, I wanted to begin a small documentary series on my YouTube channel, assisting young people out past the suburbs with finding cool places in the big city; all via public transit. We’ll, trains mostly. I don’t even ride the busses unless it’s absolutely necessary.

The purpose of the series would be to entice young artists into the big city for better opportunities. I’d use them to counteract the rural mentality that all large cities are dangerous cesspools. They are, but so are small towns. Please don’t make me give you examples. Just rewatch the January 6th footage. It’ll all begin to make sense.

Today, I packed my gear before dawn, and headed to the nearest rail station with first light. I was determined to have a few more strummers from the suburbs at open mic this weekend. With a good 45 minute train ride to the edge of Dallas County, I used my time to meditate the day. To brag a bit, I had some great one liners ready for the video. Then, I heard the voice.

I didn’t necessarily identify the source by name, but my way-back machine upstairs pinpointed the type. It was one I hadn’t endured in well over a decade, and hearing it in the moment was a moment too soon. A rent-a-cop.

Private sector security officers are all over the DART public transit system now, and, in my experiences, they’re the first evidence of human cloning technology. Dallas even uses them in some of their schools rather than the officers hired in the ISD budget. Nope, if you follow me, you know where those school officers are. They’re running traffic in ghost cars in heavily Hispanic neighborhoods. Priorities?

I know the close but no cigar voice all too well. Security guard companies and county jails are full of people who couldn’t quite cut it in the military or with traditional law enforcement. That, or they never made it to either in the first place; being a little too far out in the Milky Way to appease the intake psyche doctor. I recognized this often as I worked in a Sheriff’s Office for over a decade. I needed a paycheck; some of those guys did it for the thrill of unpunished violence. Over time, I learned to be the last officer running down the hallway toward an emergency. Less reports to write.

This particular caricature of a small town little league coach was schooling anyone who’d listen about the dangers of last week’s election. Also, even though I assumed he hadn’t a pot to piss in anywhere near the vicinity of the state of Michigan, he was giving a young black couple his rather animated two cents regarding Muslims and Islamic culture. I was curious as to whether his diatribe was included in the train’s fare, so I stepped in.

Within five minutes, he’d counteracted my all my points with the usual confessions: he has Muslim friends, and he’s been to the Middle East, because of course he had. Then, he gave me an assist not even I saw coming. I spiked him.

“I’ve read the Quran from cover to cover,” he donated.

“That means dick,” I returned. “Millions of people misinterpret the Christian bible daily. Also, spell Quran; I dare you.”

I was politely informed that he had a job to do, and he played the police card as his saving grace. He asked to see my ticket.

Luckily, it was an official veteran’s fare, which prevented him from any more stolen valor attempts for the sake of interesting conversations with misinformed strangers. He walked to the back of the train to be as far away from me as possible. I didn’t blame him.

It was quite the fun debate in real time, but, after the dust had settled, I found myself a bit depressed. It was like that spent feeling after sex, but with a partner in which I preferred burying an axe in their head during the finale. The uniformed twat was an intellectual vampire, and was attempting to move into the empty apartment within my brainiac nook. I shook him out the best I could. I even sealed the deal with a ham & Swiss on rye and a pickle from the NY Deli across from the train station. He lingered like bad gas at an indoor swimming pool; the mother of all shower farts.

It’s been nearly eight hours now. I’m belching deli pickles and still hearing the voice of someone who landed the job after his January 6th pardon kicked in. My other two interactions with gentlemen employed by this security firm resulted in similar circumstances. They were all three quite vocally a bit on the white supremacist side of the color spectrum. Luckily, these and other officers are in the top running to be a sort of permanent DART Police replacement. He was quite adamant about that fact.

Then, it really hit me.

What are the chances that these and other private security firms are akin to domestic terrorist sleeper cells; organizing and working out in the open under guise of wannabe cops? If I were a Junior Nazi from the high school football fields of Northeast Texas, it’s EXACTLY how I’d stay in the know. Luckily, I get to legally hide behind the shield of established fiction author. I lied for a living and, although laughable, it paid. My harem did it for freakin’ free.

After needing to trim out 75% of the recorded footage, I deleted the entire damned project for the second time. It would’ve been near impossible to salvage the video by dancing around his incessant backpaddling. Then, anger stepped in. Why would white supremacists want to work for private security companies tasked to DART trains…

…which are occupied by the current targets of both our state and federal governments: immigrants, homeless, and downtrodden folks.

Do ICE officers play dress-up as private security officers? Could they be riding along on the trains, pretending to be in service of the passengers, and secretly forwarding the its contents to the goon squads throughout the city?

Sure, I have ZERO evidence to back any of these theories up, and they’re far from factual accusations, but, if I were a fiction author, and I am from time to time, that’s how I’d write it. If I were living under the rule of a laughable yet very real fascist regime in training, and I wanted to tickle the nads of the high and mighty’s, I’d be a low-budget security guard playing lookout for the gravy lickers in which I dreamed to belong.

Now, since this poor excuse for a finer gentlemen took it upon himself to invade my bubble, it’s only fair that I return to the scene of the verbal scolding from time to time to dig a little deeper. Maybe with him; maybe with one or two of his friends. I look like them; what would they be willing to tell someone who they believed to be likeminded?

This is the epitome of gonzo journalism. My most vocal critics think gonzo only describes Thompson, but gonzo journalism lives on in the wake of his long-gone genius. Putting myself into the thick of it all for the sake of the story, in a time which the story needs telling most.

Sh*t, it’s all I know how to do.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.

I don’t want to make nonsensical videos to be celebrated by the masses. No, I want to infiltrate the horde. People need to know. Besides, those poons have no idea what a demon truly looks like. I mean, in order to read my stuff, you must comprehend the art of reading, right?

I think I’d make a cute cave troll.

I’m downright mad, honestly. I put so much effort into getting up and making that silly project happen, and then some sow from the presidential petting zoo waddles by to infiltrate my happy. I keep asking myself over and over again: how much longer must I try and fail before rediscovering passion within my anything. Irritated? Sure, I stay irritated at basically everything existing within the confines of today’s world, but when was the last time I was break your nose “mad”?

Don’t come into my energy with a rubber badge to push your cuckish beliefs upon the unfortunates representing the targets of your futility.

Once upon a time, I wanted to be the writer who secret-keepers feared. There’s never been a better time than now. Eventually, through finding out who I’m not, I’ll eventually get to who I AM.