Satan Burger - By Mellick Carlton Page 0,3

ghost on one of them. Slave on another. The most descriptive shirt says crippled.

Other shirts tell people: I am a sandwich, I am a dildo, and I am the drunk driver that killed your kid - an attempt at being mean.

But my voice is only one thing that the drugs screwed up. The worst part is what happened to my vision. It is all cracked up, kind of like acid-drug. Everything I see is always shifting and melting, like the world is made of water, streaming down and around and up again.

It’s like schizophrenia, I guess, but my thoughts are completely normal. Maybe it’s half schizophrenia; my thoughts are sane, but my vision is insane. Maybe it really is schizophrenia and I just think I am sane. I don’t know. I just know I have to go through this alone.

I call the watery world, Rolling World.

My friends call it, Acid Ocean Eyes.

But — I can see in the third person without everything rolling, thank Yahweh (or whatever God likes to be called), so I don’t miss my old eyes so much.

Sometimes I believe that I’m blessed with my God’s Eyes, just like the people on TV that say they are blessed with psychic powers. God’s sympathy is why I can see this way, even though I have never been a BIG fan of God’s. Someday I’ll figure out why He gave them to me.

Maybe I am His son, like Jesus Christ, but regarded as the fuck-up of his two children. Who knows . . .

Occasionally I enjoy my rolling world. It can put me into a peaceful hum that relaxes every twitchy nerve in my body. Sure, it’s hard to get around when you can’t see straight, but sometimes it is pacific-beauty.

Once I asked a doctor, "What is wrong with me?"

I figured he wouldn’t believe me. Even I don’t believe me. Who has ever heard of acid ocean eyes?

But the doctor was just staring at his wall, paying no compassion.

Then he shrugged.

He said, "There is always something wrong with someone."

Scene 2

The Warehouse Between

The Warehouse Between DimensionsThe Warehouse Between DimensionsThe Warehouse Between Dimensions

I live in a warehouse with three friends and two strangers.

My highest of the three friends is named Christian. He has a speaking problem caused by drug abuse as well – maybe that’s why we became friends – but it is quite the opposite of mine. His problem is that he never shuts up, like he’s naturally cranked up on snoopies, the dippy-fun guy. He talks and talks and talks, even when there’s nothing to talk about, even when he’s alone. Over and over, the same subjects, annoying mostly everyone he comes into contact with. Most of the time all his talking gets on my nerves as well, but I’m sure that all my silence is a pester to him.

But it isn’t like that all the time. When I’m alone with him, we communicate differently than with a crowd. I speak more and he speaks less, so that it all evens out to a medium speed somehow. Besides the small people in my wall, he is the only person that I enjoy talking to.

Nobody knows that Christian and I speak differently when we are alone. They say that Leaf is as silent as a leaf, and Christian is as obnoxious as a Christian.

I don’t remember Christians being obnoxious, but my friends tell me they all were at one point. So they say. There are no more Christians today, at least not the Christ-worshipping kind, and there aren’t any religions either.

The religions were the first things that everyone became bored with. People stopped praying and going to church, holy water went unblessed, crosses and candles were no longer being purchased. The whole religious phenomenon just vanished, like snap, besides the few who considered their religion’s ways of living too routine to stop.

Routineis an important word today, because it is the only thing left that makes the world go around.

The people of Rippington are excluded from this statement, since the walm is the opposite of routine. And the walm brings out odd feelings in the beings that surround it. These feelings are the natural reaction to the foreign energy that fuels the walm, the stuff that makes it go. We call the energy sillygo, but that’s not the scientific term. The name the scientists gave it was the stuff that makes it go, because the scientists didn’t care much to give it a proper scientific name.

We call it sillygo because it