Rumblitis--Chapter Fifteen (Jango Fettology)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FIFTEEN:
  
   Ray, deep inside a bottle of Southern Comfort, randomly paging through Harlan Ellison's prophetic piece "I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream", him having, maybe, chatted it up with the linguistic genius Thomas Pynchon once or twice; also, denying George Lucas' "Bad Space" teachings, architecting as a creative consultant the sheer, cosmic mysticism of BABYLON 5--a pulsating Space Opera for the Underground.
   Alas, Ray knew Jango Fett didn't need the double-edged luminosity of ancient weapons, nor junky religions, yet to only possess pure confidence in his corporeal abilities, eating white bread and getting buff, denouncing the low-carb doctrine of Dr. Oz for a trek towards the greatness of girth, easily bench-pressing Obi-Wan; furthermore, James Tiberius Kirk would kick Yoda's ass, doing a double-handed crunch of the green alien's vertebra--the frog-like creature having an uncanny resemblance to the talkative Larry King, though not a raging libido like the Hebrew Prophet of them airwaves, somewhat reminding Ray of the testosterone-driven Brigham Young.
   And Ray Rumble was gracious for the physical epiphany of Jango Fett, thinking religion might be useless.  Timothy Francis Leary, as told by Doctor Basil Loveflesh, himself a Harvard-educated neurologist/psychiatrist, explaining:
   "No matter how enlightened the LSD made Leary, even if it made him the Buddha, he soon realized that you still have to do the dishes.  Yep, even Moses had to wake up, take a shit, shower, shave, and be a man about it all.  Ray--life is not about chasing ghosts and religious comprehension.  We are INCARNATE--in the fucking flesh.  Now go get laid or something."

Rumblitis--Chapter Fourteen (Chief Me)

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   FOURTEEN:
  
   Ray Rumble snapped into the venomous vibrancy of AWAKE--Xelba's profane utterances driving him consciouswards, for he should've religiously retained a sturdy sanctity for her resonating soul; however, he was filled with mirth yesterday, and that grants ominous payback from any haunting ghoul, no matter how gorgeous or loving.
   "Shit--I'm sorry Xelba."  Ray cried.
   So, wishing he had put cannabis in the medically free peace pipe of Montana, known as "The Last Best Place", 4th in American Size, yet 48th in population density, singing Shamanistic songs, perhaps poltergeisting Ray a bit bizarre.  Furthermore, the ex-punter recalled certain, non-canonized Saints of the American Indian Variety, especially WHITE MAN RUNS HIM--the enduring Crow Scout having braved and survived George Armstrong Custer's 1876 expedition against the ultimate human fighting machines dubbed the Sioux, this further fabricating a high cheekbone Montana legacy; moreover, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM would've been selected by Andy Warhol's wild and wasted mind if corporeal existence had thrived him into the buzzed 60's; still, WHITE MAN RUNS HIM entered the mystical trance of sub-cultural Hollywood in 1927, briefly appearing in a fabulous flick known as RED RAIDERS, all while possibly residing near Lodge Grass, yet mythology lurks around the red-hued warriors, and Ray granted reverence to altered states of consciousness, though knowing that rarely did the Red Man arrive there by way of the frustrating FIREWATER.
   As a result of all this historical implantation of Montana memory, if it was really Montana, Ray figured he may take a break from the booze, getting off the sauce for a bit, finding a local Shaman to reveal introspect and shit like that.  For those crazy ass Injuns have sincere creativity in contacting the sublimity and malevolence of spirits, disregarding Buddha's Neutrality of it All, yet Ray did not want to interact with Real People, knowing a Psychopomp "Guide of Souls" would enlighten in a more pragmatic sense for the psychotic activity of his common sense-lacking mind.  But would the Hebrew Engine known as Christ be pissed, or open an alternative direction into the Father's Heart?  Regardless, Ray put a feather in his salt and pepper hair; then, blew a kiss to Christ, doing the synergy of mysticism, knowing:  "What the Hell."  Something Jack Burton, confined within the internal cockpit of THE PORKCHOP EXPRESS used to say, lov'n them Chinese.  And again Ray recollected:  (NKJV) John 14:6--the Holy Fabric of Christ expressing:  "No one comes to the Father but through Me."  So, maybe he would start, immediately, drinking again, finding favor in intoxication like JIMBO and them DOORS, for that was Christ gone Shamanistic, totally, though culminating in a Serpent's Kiss.

Rumblitis--Chapter Thirteen

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   THIRTEEN:
  
   Lieutenant Commander Spinoza scattered across carpeted suburbia, the frigid chill of a Montana Winter clinging to the cemented red brick outside; plus, penetrating the interior of the spacious household, driving a tame , loving, and CONSCIOUS hedgehog to get frisky, playing the part of a true rascal, eagerly hunting for a package of LIFE SAVERS or something in any nearby trashcan.
   Ray came in from his jog.  Elated.  Smiling Sunshine amidst the overcast Alaska of it all, knowing a country with a Bigger Sky eclipses the sexually attractive Sarah Palin's House of Worship.  Anyway, settling into a mediocre loser-like lust for life, Ray got on the Internet and decided to chat up the ladies.  But first, personally insisted, as possibly the asshole author of this toxic tale, praying:
   --Dan Dierdorf --I apologize.  You said that the multiple-named, teleporting Rob Johnson was just as good a running-QB as the divinely dexterous Doug Flutie during the Tennessee Titans' "Music City Miracle" Game; moreover--that is Egyptian balderdash.  Still, while playing for the lightning bolt ornamentation of the now powder blue, sometimes, San Diego Chargers, you offered the illumination of intellectual speech concerning the swift-elfness of the fast-footed Flutie, somewhat proclaiming:  "Doug Flutie just won't go away.  He may not be the best, but he just won't go away."  Awesome, Dierdorf.
   I just hope the NFL doesn't tragically morph into the NBA--it only highlighting the genetically obscene, while pro football remains the only sport without the axiom of a definite weight and height class, more or less--get me?  You got David Beckham weight guys mixing it up with the freakishly large "J.J." Watt of them Houston Texans, him on his way to the Hall Of Fame.  Sincerely, the most common of men would be wise to shoot steroids all night if having to play against that gigantic, smoldering fortress of defensive domination.
   Then, Ray crashed.  This uplifting brainstorm of life soooooooo much better than things macabre; alas, he huddled close to his hedgehog, beeping the sweet sounds of its ambiguous noisemaker, Spinoza offering a "Vroom" of the cute soothe for a pet owner.  Next, Jimmy Kimmel erupted on live television, and Ray was soon sleeping like a rocked-to-rest infant underneath the celestial shimmer of a neon-glittering night.

Rumblitis--Chapter Twelve

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TWELVE:
  
   Ray was not yet defeated; specifically, he had yet to engage in the totality of an intoxicated destruction, for the sheer hell of it, loving God.  Still, knowing tangible enlightenment is an impossibility, the British philosopher, mathematician, and social critic, Lord Bertrand Russell announcing:
   "I will not die for my beliefs, because I may be wrong."
   Nonetheless, Ray had hope.  It didn't matter that no supersymmetric particles have been overwhelmingly discovered, for SuperSymmetric String Theory outshines its own self, offering a forever function of everything--though the more Ray studied it, the more he didn't understand it.  Regardless, in its own way, everything is connected, such as:  Time, space, the crude matter of an indecent Luke Skywalker and his robotic, masturbating hand, him disgustingly having hopes for creamy copulation with his own sister--and Darth Vader was a sinner (WTF).  Indeed, everything has already happened, yet everything will rear its rancorous head again.  And Ray was wickedly wise concerning his personal ignorance, knowing he wouldn't have casually snorted cinnamon years ago in a clumsy attempt to usurp the Drug War and find personal elation due to the crises of his protracted humanity.  Alas, he reflected:  (KJV, Hebrews 12:2):  "Looking unto Jesus, the author . . . "
   Yep, God has clearly, already, written the novel of existence.  We have been born, died, resurrected, everything--it has all cosmically happened already, and will again.  There is no Free Will, for we are crafted characters in God's literary, somewhat Pantheistic masterpiece.  Thus, Ray felt better.  Drank the cold flow of bull piss, it being over-processed American beer.  Next, he cranked on the cancerous mystery of his menthol E-Cigarette, thinking about going for a jog to embrace the beauty of life, having the reverie of remembering Gregory Widen's storyline of HIGHLANDER (1986)--the best of the sci-fi drama being:
   "Feel the Moose Highlander!"
   Yup.  And as he poured his package and somewhat muscular thighs into a pair of neon spandex, he sang, praising God and the Best of Men:
   Rob Roy--
   The Highland Rogue . . .  

Rumblitis--Chapter Eleven: Virgin Mary's Hue

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 

  
   ELEVEN:
  
   Staci Rumble, slapping little brother Ray into consciousness, him almost dead and definitely drunk, lazily lounging on the cruel comfort of a Kennedyesque rocking chair, hoping to heal his mind with a little motion, remembering the Cuban Missile Crises and President Jack's Steel Intentions, like Conan's father kinda/sorta saying:
   "Men will make mistakes and let you down, but you can always count on the steel of a sword."
   Ray threw up.  On Staci's Reebok footwear.  She laughed.  Cried too.  Gently removing the chunky-discharged tragedy of it all.  Found a towel and spot removed after trash-caning the foul evacuation of Ray's insides.
   "I'm sorry sis."  Ray blurted.
   Staci, tears flowing from her eyes:
   "It's almost time Ray.  It's almost time for you to die.  Then, it will all be better."
   Ray like:
   "I know."
   Staci:
   "Don't fight death when it comes.  Merge into the entropy of it all--your decency and living determination to love the life of Christ will pronounce you solid--if ya get me ."
   Didn't matter to Ray.  Sure, he loved Christ.  But why?  The anguish of it all--a devil's creation out of hand.  A reason for greatness.  The evolution of stupidity or not, the important thing being humility.  Dead to pride--pride being rebellion against God.  Only live to do your best, no matter how screwed up you are, whether suffering from a Learning Disability or dangerous due to Crystal Meth addiction--yes, we are all children of God, Satan too--and that's what freaked Ray--the duality of it all.  The escape of the crimson-horned adder as mentioned in the Book of Revelation.  You can't kill it.  Then, the WOMAN in Blue offered ease, reminding Ray:  (Genesis 3:15, A Translation Of The Latin Vulgate):  "I will put enmities between thee and the woman, and thy seed and her seed:  she shall crush thy head, and thou shalt lie in wait for her heel."
   Ray felt better.  Burped sobriety.  Sobriety being a cruel bitch clothed in a botched existence.  And he was glad, glad that Staci would always love him, this easing his modern absence from Xelba. 

Rumblitis--Chapter Ten

  
   As Always--my books:  King's Books! 
  
   TEN:
  
   Staci Rumble was casual with Her Almighty power to Superposition Her Holy-Constructed Self.  Like Mork to Orson, she communicated with the Hebrew God; moreover, kept a cosmic eye on Ray.
   This was the Castle Christ spoke of.  (See KJV, John 14:2)  The many-roomed mansion.  The Rumble household haunted by Xelba, a torturous churn of paradise, promising euphoric culmination.  God Himself is beyond the fabric of fantasy or mathematical equation.  Like Saint Thomas Aquinas blinded by his last mystical vision, this causing him to offer cessation to the quill, Ray was lovingly murdered by God.  He (God) is a slippery Orca in the sea foam-green of it all--it being an all-encompassing lagoon of lucidity. 
   "Damn."  Ray hesitated.
   The Ex-Canadian Punter was phobic about falling into the Caribbean-themed water and getting eaten by the Holy Killer Whale.  Worse, passed through the intestinal tract and turned into poop.  Everything cursed the mind of Ray, and he hated his own stupidity and emasculating imagination.  But he had to continue on, for Christ never gave up on him, and he would be wise to return that remarkable favor.

Rumblitis--Chapter Nine (X-Men Of Canada)

 
   As always--my books:  King's Books! 
 
   NINE:
  
   Ray Rumble swiftly awoke from the vividness of phantasmagoria, only to enter the immediacy of an ashen daymare; as a result, he goes to his pills, popping one in the thrush (oropharyngeal candidiasis) of his mouth by way of a Fran Tarkenton Pez Dispenser; indeed, he knew Canada's Department Of National Defense had the uncanny goods on him; therefore, the golden-haired Sasquatch and mercurial midget known as Puck may come hunting for him--ALPHA FLIGHT being the Canadian equivalent to the American Legion Of Super-Sophisticated Toxically-Wasted Avengers; regardless, the castrating trauma of Real Life thwarted Ray's evolution into human normality, him voicing: 
   "Christ save me."
   Ray hated himself.  Was mistake prone and stupid.  Still--he tried baby!  Wasn't no punk.  Totally remembered the oncoming rush of "special team" players assaulting the kicking grace of his left foot.  Yep, punters matter, and it doesn't mean a rat's ass what Dan Dierdorf thinks, for while some men are like unto the Super Villain Rhino (Aleksei Mikhailovich Sytsevich), having mutated muscles galore, others are brilliant engineers, and some are rogue-wasted poets, too dumb to save their own drunken asses in a bathtub full of lukewarm water, doing the decay of Chief Mojo Rising (Jim Morrison).
   "Shit."  Ray knew.
   He had to have Xelba.  Right now.  Found the gleaming edge of Ginsu Cutlery, took it to his wrist, knowing to go vertical with the laceration.  Yup:  This is the End, beautiful friend the End, of our elaborate plans the End--I'll never look into your eyes, again . . .
   But, he would.  Even though:  Lost, in a Roman Wilderness of pain . . .