RoboChildren

by James Hunt

  RoboChildren

  The Tussin Generation

  By James Hunt

  Text copyright © 2012 James David Hunt

  For my close friends and family.

  Thanks for putting up with me.

  Special thanks to Amanda, Arielle, Dani, David, Devon, Doug, Father, Foutty, Fox, Jesse, Jon, Kaitie, Kati, Katie, Kristy, Gay Kodi, Megan, Mikey, Leah, Nicole, Phil, Tamra, Zach and everyone else that either contributed to breaking my mind or has attempted to save it.

  You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved,

  so you might as well join in the fun.

  Front cover by G.

  “You can’t really be strong until you see a funny side to things.”

  Ken Kesey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Fat Phil

  Chapter 14

  Jerry the Fly

  Chapter ??

  Final Chapter

  I turned and walked out the door.

  I threw all my belongings into my car, filled the tank,

  and took off down the main road for the last time.

  I watch the familiar streets begin to fade into the distance behind me.

  This is it. This is the frontier I have been searching for.

  But I am plagued by fragments of memories

  and the inherent meaning behind it all...

  PART ONE

  King Delsyn

  Chapter 1

  Good Times

  With Bad People

  I sat at my desk trying to avoid getting excited about the odd adventure into my mind planned for tonight. The journey I would take between the fingers of the law's grip on today's recreational chemicals grew more and more arousing to me. But I knew I couldn't go on this journey alone, and based on past experience I knew my accomplice, Zach, was about to waltz through my door. And, running on the most basic of human cognitive processes, he walked into my house without the slightest hesitation regarding what I might be doing alone in my home. He was rambling off some nonsense about how his twisted mind barely grasped the not-so-strange coincidences of everyday life. “I saw a girl I went to high school with in high school and I thought about her yesterday, and guess what? I saw her working at Wendy's today! The universe is aligned to my thinking, don't you think?” Without gracing the moron with a response, I swatted at a fly lingering about my head – annoyed with him already.

  Zach was a strange fellow. He was about six foot four with short dark hair and abnormal blue-grey eyes. They looked to me like still frames of whales making vicious love under the surface of the ocean – just vacant aquatic-animal lust. 'Disproportionately gangly' would be the best way to describe his build, a description which was best exhibited when his ever-distant brain instructed his slinky skeletal structure to slide into a room. I had always felt an urge to learn and experience life, whereas he was more interested in the prospects of sexual intercourse – as more of a sport than anything. And it had earned him a bad reputation with the locals. Thinking with your genitals leads to trouble, and in his case: disease.

  I was recording these thoughts onto my father's tape recorder, which I had just found in a drawer of my desk. And dextromethorphan hydrobromide was on my mind at the time – because there were no alternative drugs to be found during that miserable Ohio winter in 2007, not because I was addicted or anything vile like that. Its OK, I thought to myself, my body can handle it one more time, definitely. And after all, I'm certainly not one of those simple-minded addicts held hostage by their own desires to have their particular chemicals to be used for mere kicks or, even worse, an escape from this terrible reality.

  We got into Zach's car to pay the druggist a visit, as we had done every other day that week. I didn't understand how people could abuse drugs to numb the pain of existence, when my entire purpose was to explore that pain. Zach, however, was one of those people, searching for a good time without regard for his mind or the minds of others. I was sure he was capable of making far more impulsive, and therefore dangerous, decisions than I. However, I was confident in my ability to keep him under control, and, at the same time, maintain non-suspicious behavior myself. We made our necessary pit-stop for the night at the local pharmacy, and purchased a box of triple C's. But before we did, we slipped a couple bottles of slimy orange Delsyn into our eager pockets. These were two of the more potent forms of my coveted chemical. We waltzed gleefully out of the store and got into Zach' car.

  Here we were, two men bent on breaking every rule we could possibly get away with, driving at top speed to Millingsburg, a town I had once lived in. We drove there with the intentions of meeting up with a nurse named Phoebe – well, she was in medical school to become a nurse. Her husband (she married at a young age out of desperation for affection and regular butt sex) was anal about keeping her under his watchful eye – as well he should have, she was a beautiful specimen. I had many times fantasized about marrying her myself but those were teenage dreams – I knew it even then. But by her being in communication with us, she was rebelling against him – and that excited me, reigniting younger passions. She had been texting Zach more than me, though. I knew full-well he wanted her, and for nothing more than penetration and separation. A few weeks prior he had been drug-jabbering about how he wanted to "fuck her like a monkey," and then got down on all fours to demonstrate exactly how it would have to be done. At the moment of this disturbing confession, it seemed natural for him to share such an insidious fantasy with me. But it disgusted me as we drove to meet her.

  We arrived at the Millingsburg WallyWhirled and lumbered in. We were to meet dazzling Phoebe in the parking lot in an hour or so. I could see Zach's eyes burning within his skull, and I figured my were similar, but mirror-reflective aviator sunglasses masked my guilt-riddled eyes. In true Gonzo form, my personal ode to Dr. Thompson. I thought, Maybe I shouldn't just casually stroll into this store on more dex than I have ever consumed. And it was true, I hadn't taken a dose of DXM as high as when I was walking willy-nilly into the public department store that night. Half a box of C's and a five ounce bottle of orange syrup. But the true gravity of the situation was quickly suffocated in my mind as I stepped through the automatic sliding doors and the real game began – it was as serious as death, just don't get caught. I noticed the security monitor suspended from the ceiling, and I watched it watching us, studying us. I checked to confirm I was walking in a sufficiently normal fashion because I was starting to feel the drug itch at my spine like a cancer of perception. Cursing myself for being so damn paranoid, I turned to Zach.

  "Fuck it, man, lets get our dust on!" I said. Immediate disbelief and hesitation replaced his default goofy expression as he processed the suggestion. Nobody in their right mind (or even a heavily drug influenced mind) would consider dusting their brains in such a public place as this. Canned air, Dust-be-gone, Dust-Buster, these are the names of our little canned friends that reduce the human mind to the simplest and most pathetic form. A fucked up version of nitrous, filled with additives to keep people from sucking it down like fiends – without the additives, the entire planet would be running on the shit. Mind numbing and physically hazardous, this inhalant is a dangerous one – not to mention, cheap and readily available just about anywhere. Two of my ex-girlfriends became addicted to this stuff. Death in a can, $6.99.

  I knew the dex was taking its morally degrading hold over my accomplice's mind as he hesitated then agreed, but with a wa
rning that it would make him puke. I laughed at the thought of him curled up under a clothing rack, hurling something fierce all over the boy's swimming trunks. But that's ridiculous, why would there be swim suits in the winter? lost for a second in thought. For all I cared, he could puke on the entire establishment. I absolutely despise WallyWhirled and everything it stands for. The entire world would be better off without the massive corporate leech sucking the life out of America... but then again, maybe that is the American way: to suck the life out of anything good and decent in this world with greed and corruption and spit it out into its hands with a look of pure disgust. The American Blow Job. But that is an old story – explored by much more intellectually sound minds than my own. I'm a patriot to the core of me and loyal to my country, but what that truly means in this doomed age, I doubt I will ever know.

  Snatching a can of Air Duster from off the electronics shelf, I discretely surveyed the area for cameras and worker drones. When I spied no threat I ripped the tab off and took a hit of the foul tasting air, there in the same aisle I had stolen it from. It always tasted like a rotting sponge that soaked up far too many different cleaning solutions. There was something very toxic in the taste of it. Zach was astonished. I read his face, and he had not understood that my intentions were to get high off canned-air in the store that sold it for innocent purposes. Was it not completely innocent? I reasoned. Who is to say what drug is innocent and what drug condemns the user? Wasn't his father on a solid regiment of Vicodin at that very moment? And not to mention his mother's suicidal booze-pill cocktails. Yet he refused and I was forced to spend my high time to try to convince him he mustn't miss seeing the wild purple gorilla I had spotted lumbering about. The gorilla was taking bong hits of DMT straight to the temporal lobe. He decided to listen to the creature on his left shoulder, which constantly defied whatever ethics and morals were suggested by the "angel" on his right. This left shoulder creature must have had my face and my voice, and I was quite alright with that as long as he took a goddamn hit.

  He took the can from me and walked down an aisle after making sure it was free from anything posing a threat to our brain-drain game. He took the smallest hit I had ever seen. I had an impulse to make fun of him for it in fact – was it even possible to get off on such a miniscule toke? – but I knew he shouldn't be pushed too far. We walked through the store taking the occasional timid hit. I grabbed a cloth soccer ball and he grabbed a giant soft Frisbee off a shelf to maintain the image of an average consumer. When my brain cell count dropped enough to lower myself to an animal-like state and my mind's metaphorical balls (or my ball's metaphysical brains) grew to lumberjack status, I took a hit like a real man – one with chest on his hair. Ignoring the disgusting taste the stuff left behind, I focused on the tingling sensation of euphoria buzzing in between my ears. It felt like death reaching right out of the air around my skull and tearing the fleshy covering away from the bone. When this terrible and exciting feeling hit me I burst into wildly intense laughter. I probably looked like a schizoid mental patient avoiding his medication. Quite the opposite, actually. Screaming something about needing more exercise, I jumped onto the platform where the exercise bikes, treadmills and stepping machines were on display. It was as if I was watching myself do all of this now. I staggered onto a stepping machine, fighting temptations to curl up in a ball and laugh myself into a frenzy, and began to operate the machine into an awkward motion. Zach noticed the trouble I was bound to attract and retreated to another part of the store in an attempt to suck down some more of the duster. Upon the realization of his absence and also the presence of a blue vested WallyWhirled slave up ahead I threw myself to the floor – landing on my feet, much to my surprise – and stumbled after the human slinky.

  I searched in vain until I heard compressed air release followed by a host of strange mumbles void of any kind of self-control. I turned the corner in time to witness Zach fall to his knees, his back to me. Running up to him, I slammed both my hands on his back and leap-frogged over his hysteric form, grabbing the can from him in mid-air. It was quite remarkable that I had the necessary motor skills to pull this off. I took a hit and ran to hide behind clothing racks and when Zach recovered he did the same when I passed it off to him. All the while, avoiding being seen by customers and the cameras watching from all over the ceiling. It became apparent to me by some miracle, anyone who saw us running around screaming nonsense at each other and inanimate objects with a can containing a commonly abused substance would be more than a bit suspicious. A purse with an image of the Beatles on a rack caught my eye. I grabbed it and put the can inside. By huffing the canned air through the cloth bag, not only did it conceal the can, but it also notably decreased the foul taste of the air. It was a little while after this that we lost any previous discretion, reaching out to our fellow customers for interaction, which we were incapable of reciprocating. I approached two girls who appeared to be our age and started conversing with them.

  “Well, what's that you got there? Is that a headphones? I'm sorry what did you say? Oh, nothing you say, well how are you's it going then?” said the dusted shell of what looked like me.

  Zach, being a naturally smooth talker with the female species, seemed to be doing better in the conversation than I. He offered them his number. Their reaction slipped through the cracks of my troubled memory – I began suffering severe time loss. But I'm sure it was taken in the way any female should instinctively take two crazed-looking hormongers on myriad illegal substances begging for a sexual romp. We were such fucking swine.

  Sometime later, by some twist of fate, I discovered my goal for the night. My pant leg had a nasty tear in it and it desperately needed to be repaired, so that was it. My trip goal. It's always good to have goals or you're just wasting your time. The tear went from about half way from the foot opening on the back of my left leg to my knee-pit. I knew it was completely unacceptable to look like that and a vital clue to the discovery of our drug induced presence in this peaceful community. A most pressing issue is at hand here I said to myself or out loud. I quickly directed myself toward the fabric department, making quick stops to breathe the excellent Wah-Wah bliss. Of course, can't forget the main ingredient, now can we? The auditory hallucination brought on by the inhalation of duster has been described as a “wah-wah” being flanged to and from the left side of the head to the right. I stumbled down the aisle of scissors, threads and other fabric tools in search of assistance. I spotted an employee drone floating nearby.

  "EXCUSE ME MISS, where are the whereabouts of one of those kits that can sew on a button or repair a rip or sew on a button...rip?... with just one needle?" I inquired without any sense of volume control. The drone was female with white hair and a long sad face. I pulled my ripped pant leg up, ripping it further. I needed to provide proof of my desperate situation, which desperately needed attention, post-haste. Desperate.

  "Umm... There's a sewing kit like that right here," she said with a confused and endlessly suspecting look and pointed directly to her left. I snatched it off the wall, unintentionally knocking several other items to the floor, keeping both my eyes fixed on that silly white hair of hers. I ran away from the crime scene. I knew the floating drone would summon a massive army to hunt me down, shoot me in the kidneys, and cart me off the to the WallyWhirled prison. A life sentence. I narrowly escaped a grim fate. I was at that time forced to face a new problem: my level of inebriation inhibited me from healing my wounded pants myself. This did not discourage the mission though, and I offered a five dollar bill to a few customers if they would simply sit down and repair my pants for me. I ran about with the five-dollar bill in my outstretched hand, waving it in faces without a sense of personal space. I felt like I wasn't communicating anything to anybody. Needless to say (but to say it anyway) this did not go over well, soliciting looks of pure disgust and hatred at its most basic. The entire human race despised me at that moment, and I really just wanted to hit the duster and let death take all of me. Chemi
cal reactions most unwanted. Purely deserved though, as I had not paid for the needle, the thread, or this most excellent trip.

  Zach's phone buzzed, and he mumbled into it incoherently. Phoebe was contacting us, informing him she had arrived to meet up with us and was waiting in the parking lot. Why didn't she call me to tell us this? Deep seeded jealousy was forcing its way out now. And good christ, how long had we been playing the Wah-Wah Game of Death in here? We made our way out of the store with extreme caution. Without a doubt in my mind, all employees and customers knew every thought in our little dex filled heads. We shuffled, clean and clear, out into the parking lot to face the fact we didn't know where we were. Somewhere in Ohio, we knew this much. The rows of parked cars seemed to stretch out beyond the ends of my perceived universe. Simply a blur of color against the dark pavement, and we walked for what felt like days in search of, nurse to be, Phoebe's car. I wonder what her prognosis on our current health crises would be. Take two hundred more of these and rest till the apocalypse – call me when you're dead. So much for medical school. Zach's phone twitched again. She was parked on the east side of the lot so we shuffled in that direction. We luckily walked past Zach's car on the way, so we stopped to grab cigars and ether. It was really starter fluid, but we liked to pretend we found the anesthetic of our dreams. Hell, it did the job, Phoebe could amputate my head and I wouldn't feel a thing after a breath of it. Surrounding ourselves with the stench of our “ether” we mindlessly indulged ourselves in the most intense high that can be achieved through inhalation of household products. A disconnect from the brain and the spinal column, from reality and the holes I had grown used to peering out of, the windows of my skull.

  After our buzz reached new excellent heights we set back out, traversing our original path across the desert of black and yellow asphalt, the rainbow of vehicles and the occasional hallucinated shadowy figure. After what seemed like the longest walk I had ever been forced to endure, someone spotted a black car parked at the edge of the universe that was running. Phoebe was not aware of our whereabouts and was about to leave until she spotted us in her mirror, creeping upon her car like it was a wild beast. I cupped my hands and strained to see through her window and, even though she was next to the glass, I struggled to make out her face. She could tell right away I was under the influence of some horrible drug. She rolled down the window and I climbed through it to the back seat and Zach went around to the passenger seat. Then, a complete blur of conversation gone wrong.