I guess you all were too young for est. Lucky. I am chained to a steel bedpost. Every few hours my mother comes in and beats me and then she sends in one of her boyfriends to kiss me and hit me with his belt. They always tell me that they love me. I do this alone in my room. I can do it anytime I want. Then I want to go to her house and beat her sleeping body until the brains start coming out. I can smell it all now because that’s how it’s going to be. It’s going to be a smell thing. Blood, shit, and brains. Nothing smells like human brains. It’s a thick sweet smell. It will drive you insane.
You should have killed me when you had the chance. You fucking missed me twice. Fuck you. I was walking up Hollywood Boulevard. I saw a girl sitting on the ground outside of the Chinese Theatre. She motioned for me to come over. She wanted to know if I would buy some sunglasses off her for a dollar so she could get money to go to Las Vegas. I asked her why she was asking for a dollar if she was planning such a long trip. She said, “I’m a Hollywood fuckup,” and that she was trying to get her shit together. I could tell by her eyes that she was a junkie. She was looking pretty bad. I asked her if she wanted to get high. She said that she was trying to get off the shit but it was hard and she would really dig getting high right now because she had been puking all day. I told her to come with me and she could suck my dick and I’d give her twenty bucks. She got up and we went to a parking garage near my place. I took her around the back to the fire exit that’s never watched and never locked and we went in and up the stairs to the second level. I was amazed at how trusting she was. She asked me if I wanted to score with her. She said that she would come over and we could party at my place after we got the shit. I told her that was cool. I told her, “I love to party,” to see if I could make her laugh. She looked at me and said that I looked like it. We got up to the second level, and I walked her to the corner behind the fucked-up van that had been sitting there all summer. She got down on her knees and started trying to undo my belt buckle. I stood her up and hit her in the face as hard as I could. She fell on the ground and put her hands on her head. I kicked her until I was barely able to breathe. I treat humans like what they are, garbage.
It’s easy to play God trips on your head. They are talking a bunch of shit late into the early-morning hours. I can hear them from my room. They’re sitting in a car outside. I can feel their heat. I can taste the food they ate on their spent breath as it comes out of their mouths. I can sense them totally. I could kill them with my eyes closed, but I had them open the whole time I clubbed the man to death. He was so easy. I went outside and kicked the side the bitch was sitting on, and of course the guy came out and asked me if I had a problem. This made me laugh. There is a big difference between me and that guy The difference is that I kill people. I hit him in the face as hard as I could with the bat and killed him with one shot. I clubbed his head until I saw his brains and then ran down the alley and through the back door. My block is so fucked up that no one looks out the windows anymore anyway. The cunt just sat in the car and watched. I got away clean. There’s a big difference between you and me. I kill humans. I end their lives and ruin the lives of their families. I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. I know the meaning of life. It has no meaning. I kill you and it doesn’t matter. It’s the way I can pass time and respect myself you fuckhead.
There’s a lady who knows … Here’s what happened and it’s the fucking truth. I was walking from the store. I don’t like going out in the day. I can’t take the sun. It’s not good for me. I don’t like all the ugly fucking people looking at me like they do. All I can do is dream of killing them. It would feel so good to just be able to shoot them like the pieces of shit that they are. Their eyes bugging out, their filthy little kids looking and laughing. I go out at night because there are less people out there to fuck with me. I was walking like I said and this pig car pulls up. I stop. Like what the fuck am I going to do, keep walking and mind my own business like I haven’t done anything? Fuck no. I stop because I know that the pig will cook up some reason to take me to jail if I don’t stop. The pig gets out of the car and asks me where I’m going, and I tell him that I’m walking to the store, and he says that I’m a faggot looking for some dick to suck. He calls me a cocksucking faggot looking for a little meat. He says that he ought to kick the shit out of me right on the spot. I told him I wasn’t a faggot. The pig hits me in the stomach and pulls me to the backseat of his car. He puts his gun to my head and tells me to unzip his pants because I’m going to suck his cock right now. I did it. I sucked the pig’s cock. What else was I going to do? He had the gun at my head. I was never with a man before, besides some of my mother’s boyfriends and my stepbrother, but none of that was my idea. He pushed me out of the car and drove off. I went home. I’m going to kill that fucking pig someday. I’m going to find him and waste his pig ass. It’s going to be great. I’ll make him suck the gun. Yeah, come on pig. Let’s see some feeling. Gimme some soul when you wrap your tongue around that barrel. I hate those big funerals for cops. The ones where the taxpayers shell out too much money so the pigs can shoot guns and make people think that the dead piece of shit was worth the time of day. They should have the funerals at my house. We could party and drink and laugh and play videos of me shooting the pig over and over. Tie up the pig’s boyfriend and mother and make them watch it until they pass out and then kill them. If the pig happened to be married to a woman, then I’ll have more fun. I’ll follow her around for a few days and get her habits down, and then I’ll take her out. I’ll put a leash on the cunt and take her out for a walk. Fucking pig slut. Come. Heel. Water the flowers with your piss, you fucking bag of shit. You pig fucker. Shoot her in the jaw with a .22 and leave her so she’ll be disfigured but not dead. Fuck you pig. I’m going to kill you.
Sorry, but I’m the REAL voice of the village. Ha ha. Ho ho.I never wanted you. At night I prayed that you would die inside me. I used to hit you by running into tables as hard as I could, hoping that you would crack your skull. I drank. Oh god, I drank. I did anything I could to try and kill you while you grew inside me. For nine months I felt like I was full of cancer. I should have killed myself in the ninth month. That would have been master work on my part. I hate you. But still you came out. At first I was happy just to have you out of me. I didn’t care what you looked like. The nurse asked me if I wanted to hold you, and I said no. I should have strangled you while you were asleep. I never wanted you. I want you to know that and never forget it. You ruined my figure. You ruined my life. I hate you. Forever. How do I have a normal sex life with a fucking kid in the house? You think a man wants to come and fuck me when he knows there’s a kid in the next room? How am I supposed to be with a man when I know that at any minute you’re going to come into the fucking room asking me to fix some fucking toy. They never come to the house again. That’s why I hit you every time one of them left. You ruined my life. I never had a life after you came along. I hate you. I remember when I got my boyfriends to hit you. I got sick of touching you, even though it gave me great pleasure to hear you scream. I liked it better when the man did it to you. I always stood outside the door and listened to them hit you. I was always hoping that one of them would kill you and you would be gone and I wouldn’t have to do time. I hate you. Do you know what makes me the maddest? The fact that I did everything I could to kill you and nothing worked. You are the Antichrist. You didn’t die. Now I wait for my life to end. There’s nothing for me now. I am old and ugly, and you could come into this room and kill me now if you wanted to. That’s why I keep this gun. I hate you. Tonight is the big night. The gun is in my mouth. I am destroying myself tonight. Tonight is the end of my suffering. No more looking in the mirror and seeing this ugly body. The only thing it ever did was give birth to you. I could have been a model. I could have been a stewardess. I could have been anything. But instead, I became a mother. Only one life. Mine is a life wasted because of you. I hate you.
I know, I know, cultivated misanthropic maladjustment. Sh
e told me to come into her room. I went in and asked her what she wanted. She said, “I want to give you a nightmare that will last you for the rest of your life.” She took out a pistol from under the pillow of her bed and put the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger before I could say anything. Her body flew back and landed in the corner. Now she does it three nights a week. It was years ago but the memory is fresh in my mind. The sound of the gunshot roars in my head for hours like a jet engine. Now I have the gun in my hand. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about that shot. I keep thinking about what I need. It’s all coming true. Every night I smell the gunpowder and my vomit. I keep telling myself to be strong.
information. Yesterday the first gunshot came in at 7:36 a.m. No return fire. Pack the gat and spray the suckers that sling the crack. Duck and cover. It’s not you yet so don’t even think about death. It just gets in the way of the real-life movie you got going on my fucking street. This wild West has no nobility. Live in fear of the ones who have the ability to see that life has no price and for this, you pay endlessly. You pay with fear. Disease wears a cape and dons a shining shield. The stats break it down to sheer numbers. Reality has become a fear trip. Something to choke on. One in every three women in America will be raped. This is science friction. I see it from all sides. I see the direction of the infection. The facts are stacked and packed into your head. You need the two-hour vacation twelve times a day. Spark the joint and park the car. Look up at the stars. Think about it, you’re in the hot seat. You’re in a huge shark tank. If you want to beat them, you have to join them somehow. The bad guys kill the bad guys. The bad guys kill the good guys. If you want to survive the bad guys, you have to have some bad in you—a lot actually. You have to know what they know. This is high adventure in the great outdoors. I don’t know what these people thought was going to happen to them. Too much television, too much bad food, too many magazines. Too much time spent worrying about depressed millionaires getting left by their women. Wondering if the fall-season shows will be what they should be. Anyone who wants to help me doesn’t. Anyone who wants to kill me might. Anyone who wants to love me better not. People are poisonous. When was the last time you wanted to kill someone? I mean really kill someone? Where you planned all the shit out, like what to do with the body and all that. When was the last time you really wanted to live? Do you ever have to remind yourself that you’re alive? I’m not a light bringer, I’m not a gunslinger. I’m a reporter from the port of soul. Front line at the Abyss. If the abyss fits, wear it. Looking into the monster’s mouth. The vet turned cop. Man walks a dozen people down the aisle of a convenience store and shoots them. A girl gets raped in the shower a few times and now tries to kill herself often. She’s a good American—she’ll get it right. Nothing but the facts. I like the ones that make you choke. The truth is my friend. It keeps me warm at night. The truth is your friend even when it’s sending you to prison. Even when it kills you and your fuck partner. There will be some bright nights ahead. You’ll get used to the smell of napalm. Pigs eating dead bodies and the gun-toting youth who wear your looted watches and rings will not scare you one bit. Feel the fear. And don’t forget to get down.
* After they start raping they’re no longer boys.
** Evolution has a price.
Happy Birthday
February 13, 1983. German/Dutch border: About last night. The Nigheist got through one song before skinheads jumped onstage and started attacking them. One asshole was swinging a mic stand at Mugger’s head. The Minutemen were freaking out before they went on. They thought that they were going to get killed. It just made me mad. I wanted to kill those fuckers.
When we played, one skin got onstage and was looking offstage to show off to his friends and I kicked him off and he fell a long way to the floor. He didn’t dig that too much. Eight hundred fifty people showed up, but I bet that there will be a lot less people next time. D. Boon had the best move of the night. During their last song, “Fanatics,” D. jumped offstage with his guitar on and ran through the crowd screaming, “FANATICS!!!” People didn’t know what to do. He knocked those skinheads over like bowling pins.
The countryside is beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Thatched roofs on the houses, snow everywhere. The sky is so blue. I’m twenty-two years old today.
February 13, 1985. Hermosa Beach, CA: Not much went on today. Got some interesting mail. I walked down Artesia Boulevard to practice. I use Artesia to monitor the world. Highlights: Walking past the Lucky Market, saw a man blow up at a phone booth, tried to rip the receiver away from the booth. The cord wouldn’t give. The man got even madder. He smashed the phone into the booth and stormed off. I was walking past the Gulf station at Artesia and Aviation. I was in the middle of the driveway. This car was pulling in. The woman inside was mad because I wouldn’t move fast enough for her liking. She yelled at me. I gave her the old Hitler salute. She bummed. Fine. Saw a kid rip off a Creem magazine at the 7-Eleven at Artesia and Phelton. Real slick mover, that kid. He bent down, wrapped it around his leg, rolled his sock over it, and bailed out of the store. Kids in Iron Maiden shirts playing videos and hanging out.
Someday those kids will grow up and they will stand behind the counter. Now it’s just a dream. But isn’t it everybody’s dream? To don that orange and white smock. To have your own little name tag. To stand with your feet planted solidly, facing front proudly. Only turning to fill an order for a Big Gulp or a Slurpee. “Oh, Seven-Eleven, man it’s four a.m. Everything’s closed. Who can I turn to but you?” (Hey little lady, I’ll help you with that microwave!) Have you ever looked into the cold-drink section? Have you ever seen that familiar orange and white smock bobbing around back there? Bet you’d like to know what goes on back there, always hoping that Channel 7 would do a behind-the-scene report. I bet, Hey! Me too! 7-Eleven is the pulse beat of America. I think that Bruce Springsteen should do a little number about a 7-Eleven in Asbury Park but write it in such a way that the entire USA can identify and slurp along with Bruce. Suck for the Boss. Hail the Boss! Hail 7-Eleven!
For the record, sleep is getting bad. The dreams are heavy. The dreams are real. I am a freakout. I have scales. I have feathers. I have fur. I have enlarged incisors. I have claws. I have escaped the crucifixion. Stepped aside, let the parade pass me by, and pass away. I have come to drop fire. I have come to bring them to fire. To unite them with fire. Confessions of the torch: I thought I was in the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army? No! Salvation’s Soldiers, saints set on destroy. Purify! Make fire! Let it come down. The joke is killing me. Let’s end the joke so I can get some sleep.
February 14, 1986. Tulsa, OK: Last night in Little Rock was a trip. We played this very straight place, you never know where Dukowski will drop you down next. The set was good. The crowd was fairly friendly. So we finish the set and everybody is leaving and they all need to have autographs and stuff and I’m serving them as best I can. In the meantime, I’m looking around for my clothes so I can get dressed. I go to my backpack and I look for my shirts. They are gone. In their place is a shitty punker shirt. I guess the scenario went as such: Thieving fuckup punker goes up to Henry’s shit and says, “Fuck, I’ll rip off that asshole Rollins.” He takes the shirts, then something pops into his vacant brain. “I know, I’ll take these two shirts that don’t belong to me, being the low prick that I am, and in return, I’ll put my shitty punker shirt in their place!” He walks off into the moist Little Rock night.
The next trip was this huge woman who bought me flowers. It being my birthday and all. She came up to me and says, “Do you remember me? I’m the girl who gave you flowers.” Of course I remembered her. Fine. “Well,” she continued. “That Negro over there”—she points to one of the cleanup guys—“he’s been hounding me all night. I hear that they like big women. He just came up to me and said, ‘Who do you go with,’ and I pointed at you. He says he wants to arm-wrestle you to try and get me away from you.” Thanks a lot lady. I walked away from her and sat down on a piec
e of equipment. Sure enough the man came up to me and asked me to arm-wrestle him. I said to him, “Man, I know why you want to arm-wrestle me. That fat lady told you that she’s with me. Well she’s not. I’ve never seen her before tonight. She’s full of shit.” He said, “I hear you man, check this out.” He lifted up his sleeve and flexed his arm. His biceps kept getting bigger and bigger. Finally he twisted his wrist and this golf-ball-size muscle popped out on top, looked kind of sick to me. I said, “That’s wonderful, you’re more than a match for me.” He grinned and walked away.
The Portable Henry Rollins Page 20
