by Roman McClay
“I am a killer for sure. And I have lied and betrayed in the past. But I am on a more righteous path now. However, in answer to your query, God will dispose of me in due time. The State will likely kill me, or some guard in the cellblock or some 300-pound nigger will squash my head,” he laughed at this. “Right? So, I’ll suffer the same fate, but again, no innocent men will die. My 46 -that you know of- and myself making 47, evil people gone. Boom. Perfect,” he concluded.
“Yeah, well,” the short cop barked, “I don’t know what all those people were guilty of, but I bet there were some innocent folks in there too; you killed 46 people and there is no way all of them -maybe none of them- were guilty of anything other than getting on your nerves. You have a whole lot of nerve saying they deserved it.”
“Read Isaiah 45:7 when you get home tonight; for then you’ll see that God does all this. And secondly, you’re right, I do have a whole lot of nerve. A lot more nerve than most. This world could do a lot worse than having a lot more examples of me,” he said with a wry smile and a logic that was lost on these civil servants. They just grimaced and shook their heads.
“Psalm 7:13: He hath also prepared for him the instruments of death, He ordaineth His arrows against the persecutors . Gentleman I am God’s ordained arrows, I am His instrument of death. And nobody can convince me otherwise,” he said and then asked for a cup of coffee, adding, “black.”
The cops left the room and didn’t notice that they held their breath from the time they rose from the table until they reached the coffee room.
“Can you believe that guy?” the fat cop said, breathing in labored fashion. They had their confession, he had said 46, he had owned them. They were ready to start typing it up and have him sign it.
“Total whack job; the guy made zero sense and said it all like he wasn’t batshit crazy,” the short cop said.
“I mean, he was in there making up words and,” he was laughing and the other cop began giggling too.
“Yeah, like what was one, crescular , or purloin ,” he laughed.
“I want my steak purloined and a side of cescularp pie,” the two men guffawed with their 108 and 102 IQs; chuckling in between exemplars of their gaps, their lack, their below average crystalized knowledge.
“Jesus, some days it’s insane being police; people wouldn’t believe the kind of humanity we have to deal with. This maniac, killer of more people than a plane crash, and he’s calling us gossipers and liars,” the cop said behind the man’s back.
“Right, and it never occurs to the guy that maybe his behavior is a bit of an overreaction to his best friend banging his meth-head girlfriend,” the cop said while stifling a laugh.
Then the man -the mucky muck from the campaign- walked in and waited for an opening in the conversation; he was nervous around cops and this was a weird moment in time. So, he waited.
“I mean, you wanna beat the guy’s ass, yeah, I’m gonna look the other way probably, but kill the guy, no way; that’s just too far,” the short cop said as he poured the coffee. “And here I am; I’m getting this creep a cup of joe like it’s my fucking pleasure, Jesus.” The cop said this and then raised his head as if to beckon the man -the mucky muck- to ask whatever stupid goddamn question he had.
“Well, Mr. Sou, wants to know how it’s going?” the man asked.
“I bet he does,” the fat cop said.
“So,” the mucky muck asked.
“So, it’s going. Relax, let us do our jobs,” the short cop said with contempt.
The mucky muck nodded and turned and walked out toward the hall.
“Jesus,” the fat cop said as they walked back toward Interview Room #3. They lowered their voices now as they approached.
“Pointing the figure at us for being liars; this guy!” the fat cop said with incredulity.
They entered the room and set down the coffee on the table, as Lyndon said, “thanks.”
“No problem; my pleasure buddy,” the cop said with his best -most practiced- genuine smile.
“So, you guys gossip about me?” Lyndon asked as he sipped his coffee and grinned behind the Styrofoam and toward their faces. They snorted in contempt and amusement and just turned and walked out of the room.
“And this Empyreal substance cannot fail ,” the detained man said to no one; and to no avail.
II. 2017 e.v.
“Jesus, they’re not even men, they’re niggers,” he said with food still chewing in his mouth, the tea steeping in a matte black camping-cup on the concrete counter.
“Have you ever heard a nigger say one intelligent thing? Even the ones that can dress up like humans and comb their hair and get on TV and say somewhat intelligible shit, even these puppets can only regurgitate platitudes and bromides and incoherent shit.
“Look, I could respect them if they admitted they were mere beasts, like a dog or a black bear, then I could change my mind. But it’s the uncanny valley of them trying to stand on their hind legs and act like humans when they are so close to being human but are,” he paused, “fucking,” pause, “not.”
She winced in that way when anyone said anything taboo. She didn’t exactly disagree, but, she thought, who talked out loud like this? It was as if he didn’t care at all. It made her nervous. At least today he wore pants, she thought.
“Look, they laugh like hyenas over the most low-brow jokes, they fuck and rut like rabbits or single celled organisms, they rob and mob because they aren’t smart enough to string five days together of honest work, they are incessantly braying about muh dick like some lobotomized baboon, ok? They have no culture or intelligence or sophistication of soul. They are brutes and yet they refuse to submit to a more advanced species of man. That is why I hate them; they refuse to acknowledge their place .
“I would gladly submit to a race of men or gods better than me; and that is all the universe asks, as Kafka said, the condemned man will have inscribed on his body: Honor thy superiors, and I cannot find any improvement to that bit of prose,” he said.
She had no idea who Kafka was; and she was wondering if it was a writer or someone he knew personally. He quoted from each level of man.
“They do laugh a lot,” she said as she looked for something to add that wasn’t insane or evil.
“Right?” he said with a head-shaking contempt. “They laugh at nothing; Michael Irvin laughs like he is high on four pounds of dope and it even makes Brandon Marshall wince. They laugh at gibberish and puerile dick jokes. It’s gay. Bill Cosby wasn’t funny; and Chris Rock is funny exactly in proportion to his capacity to make fun of niggers himself,” he burst out laughing at this one.
“But liberals consider the racist to be the lowest possible kind of human, lower than pedophiles or murders, ok? And this is only possible because everyone is a racist, alright?”
She tilted her head in confusion. He had made sense; he was wrong she thought but he had made sense up until then. Grammatically, his words were syntactically sane, but now that last shit he said was gibberish , she thought.
“Look, interracial relationships are rare; like less than 10%; almost no one wants to be around anyone outside their own race; that is a fact even in post-Jim-Crow, post-segregation society. Second, scientific studies show that everyone imports malice on top of images of faces of people of different races. It’s subconscious; and thus real.
“Next, everyone thinks horrid racist shit all the time, they used to say it aloud, but now they just think it. And everyone knows that they do. But liberals pretend they never think, well, that’s typical black behavior , even though they sure as fuck think it. And frankly, everyone says nigger when they are alone or in the company of others who don’t disapprove.
“But again, we all must pretend that nobody is racist when everyone is. It would be tantamount to saying nobody is fucking, even though kids keep being born. The racial tension, the war that exists between the races is real, it’s being fought every day and yet, we pretend that there is in fact no such conflagration,�
�� he said.
She didn’t quite know that word, confla -whatever. But she could tell he meant fight or argument of some kind. He was good about context that way. He just didn’t like using the same word twice in a sentence or even a paragraph he had once told her. He saw it as unpleasant aesthetically speaking. He compared it to the way girls didn’t like to wear the same dress twice in public. Anyway, she could get the word’s meaning from the other word he had used earlier that she did know. That word was, war .
“My muscles ache like a motherfucker,” he said and gingerly walked to the cup of tea and removed the bag. It was black tea, and the tannins would morph into bitterness if he let the bag remain.
“You can always tell what is most true by what is most censored and most taboo,” he said and sipped his tea. “This is axiomatic and it is a heuristic guide for me; I look and see what a man cannot say and I know that is what is true.”
That actually seemed true to her. He had good instincts. But why all the racist shit? she thought .
“You see, knowledge is overrated, because it’s not possible to get it all. Right? If we could understand something totally, the thing in itself as the saying goes, if we could understand everything about a thing then knowledge would be complete and thus useful. But, we cannot. We can period not period.
“And so, with a permanence of incomplete knowledge we need another metric in which -or with which- to make decisions about how we are going to act in the world.
“See, your vision, my vision, isn’t based on object perception at all. That is the first mistake people make and in fact when AI was first being tinkered around with, that was the mistake they made too. They made the AI robots attempt to perceive objects and that governed their movements. But what they perceived is that object-perception is too complex; now this seems odd because we do it so easily right?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Right, we navigate around chairs and sofas and columns and cats all with a bit of panache ,” he said as he slid up to her, placed his arm around her tiny feminine waist and began to dance around with his tea cup held out like a counterbalance to his 18th century form. She giggled and went along for this ride.
“But,” he said as he stopped moving and looked down into her blue eyes, “we are not navigating objects; we are navigating relationships. And we do so at each and every level; up and down. This is so crucial I want to tattoo it onto my head!” He had said this both with some mirth and malice like sweet and sour sauce.
She was wide-eyed at his passion; this idiopathic passion of his.
“Relevance,” he said with a punctuation mark of a look. “Relevance is the algorithm we use to navigate relationships and we essentially say to ourselves, does this thing I perceive help, hinder or is it irrelevant to my goal?
“And that dictates what we actually perceive. Trust me, and I can prove this if you like, if you’re dubious of my unconventional claims; which by-the-way you should want evidence of every insane thing I say, because I say some crazy shit. Anyway, you will -literally at the level of perceptional cognition- not see things that you deem irrelevant to your goal. We are goal-oriented organisms.
“And this can be mundane goals like eating or drinking or complex goals like making someone laugh or fall in love with you -or creating a complex piece of narrative art for example- that can take years, decades to craft. Right? So, with each goal -simple to complex- your eyes, your visual cortex navigates around beneficial or detrimental or irrelevant phenomena; not mere objects.
“Now, you organize things into categories like objects for sure. That’s not the same as seeing objects though. You see -and I mean see in the most literal visual sense- you see what a guy I knew once calls, entities of functional significance . Now that can sound like code for, object, but that isn’t true.
“An object is static and neutered and 2D. Right? But, in real life an object changes in color and shape and size as you move closer and farther and clockwise and under and,” he raised his brow, “right? ”
She nodded again; he was certainly changing as an object all the time. He moved, she thought, around like a particle under an electron microscope, man. He had shown her this very thing once, so she ought to know.
“So, you are never seeing one thing, never seeing -quote- an object . Rather, you see something that is helping or hindering you, or if it’s irrelevant you don’t see it at all. Like the color of my socks, you have no idea what color they are because you don’t need to know; even though your eyes saw them this AM when I slid them on,” he said.
“They’re black,” she laughed.
“Yeah, because all my socks are black, but you know what I mean. You saw them but didn’t register them and so you literally did not see them at all. You have no idea the colors of the walls in your gymnasium or home room of your high school even though you laid eyes on them hundreds of times. Why?” he asked with that eyebrow up again.
“Not relevant,” she paused as he waited, “to my goals,” she added with pride. He smiled at her sharpness and she smiled at his smile.
“Bingo. And AI was having a hard day’s night trying to navigate around mere objects as their retarded algorithms instructed them. Instead, when AI actually began to be embodied, you know, in an instantiated body, they should have been -and now were- seeing things vis-à-vis relevance to goals like animals do,” he said.
“They do now?” she asked.
“Yes, AI now uses the correct algorithm thanks to moi !” he brayed.
“You’re so cool,” she said and smooched his lips.
He allowed her to keep them there as long as she wished; he made no furtive movements and breathed slowly and kept his hand on her waist.
She licked her own lips and thus his too and smiled as she backed away just far enough to focus on his eyes; a woman will focus on eyes like a man hones in on everything else. A woman has to trust her mate, and the eyes are evolutionarily developed for this invigilation, not all primates have the albumin of the eye around the iris, and thus their orbs are black boxes of unknown intention.
But, a man has the white of his eyes to background and border his eye movements and women use this all the time to intuit and predict his every move; his everything.
They don’t know that is what they are doing, they think they just have a cathexis for the eyes. Like man doesn’t know he’s using hip to waist ratio or breast size or youthful appearance as a metric for health and breeding capacity; he just likes -or doesn’t like- what he sees.
But this is why a man can barely tell you the color of his paramour’s eyes, he doesn’t need to predict her movements or thoughts the way a woman must with a man. A man -stupidly- accepts a woman at face value and assumes she is nicer and more honest than a man. He couldn’t be more wrong but there is no helping man now; he’s evolved to focus on tits and hips and red, red lips; he ignores and eschews the legend of eyes.
A female should watch her prospective mate’s hands more, the way a cop or a crook watches the mitts of his foil. But, each sex has their hits and misses and that’s the blind spot of females. He could pick her pocket of a year’s worth of eggs as long as his eyes were properly coruscating and locked onto hers.
People are retarded; and yet they still manage to breed and survive. With no consequences, there is no impetus to change or evolve. Evolution says, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, and shit, she -Evolution- even means it almost all the time, he thought as he watched her tiny body move like a star swinging on a single silk thread below the great silkworm in the sky.
“Random environments, anyway, random environments require not an intelligent response, a response based upon knowledge,” he said, even though he had skipped ahead in his speech to her, not letting her in on his connective tissue of words around the hands and eyes of man. “Because we can’t know all there is to know. Right? Knowledge is incomplete and so, trying to predict which way the ball is gonna bounce is foolish.
“Did you know that prey animal
s like deer or antelope jump randomly when they see a car and often jump right in the way of the Cadillac as it splatters their ass all over the grille?” he asked.
“No, except those cows down on Wet Canyon don’t ever move the right way when we drive up to them; those moo-cows are dumb,” she said with a squeeze of her hand on his shirt that covered his waist.
“They are indeed. But if your cheeseburger moved at all you’d think that was pretty amazing, so for cheesburgers they move ok,” he said with a wink. “Now, this random jumping out of the way is actually a perfect metaphor for evolution. Follow me here.
“When being chased by a wolf, their natural predator, jumping in a random way makes metric tons of sense because then the wolf cannot predict where to give chase. The wolf is unable to use knowledge of some rational running pattern of the antelope, and so this tactic of incoherent random movements actually works from time to time and foils the wolf’s sanguinary pursuit,” he said.
“It works?” she asked.
“Sometimes, yes. And that is the point. If you have 100 antelope, and the wolves chase them all over time and space, and that random movement bullshit works even 10% of the time that means the antelopes can survive enough to reproduce. It helps avoid total decimation,” he said.
She wrinkled her nose, “isn’t decimation the reduction of a force to 10%; from the Roman practice?”
“You’re so smart it hurts my balls,” he said as she laughed. “So, I am sloppy and dumb sometimes.”
“Nooooo,” she objected, “you’re the smartest man I know!”
“Angel, I am the only man you know,” he said.
“Praise be to Allah for that!” she said with a grin, “men are dumb and I agree with you that it’s better to not even know them; we don’t know ‘em we don’t wanna know ‘em ,” she quoted the line from the fat-kid.
“Ok, so,” he smirked, “a word like decimate has evolved to mean destroy in toto , but its original and Latinate meaning is exactly as you say. So, let me rephrase. The survival rate brought about by random movements prevents total annihilation by a predator. It’s evolution’s trump card or wild card. ”
