M  F  U

The Autobiography of Being Pissed Off

© 1998 by HC


I was born to hijack space shuttles and blackmail cities and start world neurologic wars. And be kicked out of rooms and institutions and off planets and out of solar systems.

I was born to be the kind of person that intercepts a satellite feed and superimposes flashing titles like "Disingenuous Slimeball," "Mass Murderer," or "Dickhead," over its images of celebrities and world leaders.

And I was even born to be elected President of the Cosmos -- on a platform of "Fuck the Economy! Fuck the People! Fuck the Police!"

Or else, I wasn't born this way at all, and something must have happened in life itself, to make it this way.



I was born around Big Midnight in a CanaMexican motel where the owners and maids were all so busy either drying out or scoring, that they couldn't be bothered with checking people in or cleaning the rooms.


My parents had met at a school or a spa, where young ladies were taught to be proper alcoholics.

They lived on Avenue Zero, home of coffee, toothpaste and vodka -- all at once.

After graduating, they stayed together for a while and, instead of life, decided to have the fucked-up offspring: ---- > me.


My paternal mother belonged to the Benign Fascist Labor Party, and my maternal mother ran a chain of simulation shops that only really existed in the kind of rumor that never got past Mouth One.


Though I grew up with no control over my own hopeless life, I could sometimes force events in the real world -- earthquakes and fatal illnesses, corporate bankruptcies and stock market crashes, drug czar resignation scandals and mountain road auto accidents, to name just a few. Most, without even being there. Some, without even trying.



I was born in a Sony 797, one day, and my first birthmemory was the sight of the pilot, co-pilot, and crew, out the window, parachuting by.


My parents had wanted me to grow up to be one of those people who, by sheer strength of personality, can convince 12 or 15 members of an audience to jam themselves into a small, tight, transparent, glass booth, made to hold about 6 adults max, and then lock the door on them and take two ordinary house cats and hold them out for the rest of the audience to see what sweet gentle little kitties they are, then shoot them both up with a long thick syringe of concentrated PCP and drop them into the glass booth and clamp down the lid so there's no exit.

Then join the audience in watching, as the little kitties tense up and gracefully purée the volunteers, with a driving, insect-chainsaw sound.


Of course, I didn't grow up to become one of these people and, instead, enrolled full-time at Find-the-Salami University, with a major in cable/phone/software consciousness, and a minor in how even Kamekazi Last Meal Design Therapy can be abused. My advisor was Professor Our.


Things went OK there, for a while, but eventually, junior year, I just lost it one day, in between classes, and headed out for the airport and hijacked a plane that was sitting on the runway, stuffed with passengers, waiting to take off.

Soon, the police came and deployed their snipers and sharpshooters, and through the glass of their makeshift command center, I could see the contract psycho-therapists they'd hired, madly scanning disks of clip-text, for the perfect line or word to use to talk me out of it.


I got on the radio and tried to be straight with them, at first. The police negotiator, Captain Our, listened politely to my demands, and then, when I was done, just said, "I'm sorry, but those all seem to violate some fundamental law of physics or other, and can, therefore, simply not be met in this universe, at this time. Even if we wanted to."

I got so pissed at that, I started demanding everything I could think of, whether I cared about it or not -- then, got so guilty, I only asked for softball items, just to let the cops have, at least, some success.

"How about more drugs," I said, into the headset I'd taken off the dead pilot. "Lots more drugs -- if it's not too much trouble. And while you're at it, let's have more colors and deeper darknesses and richer histories and more intelligent timbres and new hi-res emotions from formerly restricted top-secret government databases, with real-time-interactive cartoon-animal user-interfaces."


When that didn't work, I demanded more streets and more cities and more nations and continents and more moons and more space junk. And more words and more subtle explosives and more alphabets and languages and more new categories of self-sacrifice and self-destruction. I was all hyped up. Nothing was enough. Everything bored the piss out of me. Thermonuclear war between Earth and Venus. Mass suicide of entire populations by wall outlet electrocution in bathtub. Golden anal sex with the world. Zarathustra blowjob.

"There has to be more action," I screamed at Captain Our over the hotline between us. "Constant action. Somebody has to get shot or save somebody's life on every street corner, every minute. And every kickoff has to be run back 110 yards for a touchdown, and every basket has to be made from the stands at the opposite end of the court, and every pitch has to be a hit batter who dies on the spot, so both dugouts pour out, and the two teams kill each other, as well as the umpires and fans -- leaving nobody alive.

"Every sound has to be an earthquake or tidal wave that topples governments and changes national boundaries and mutates whole species so they suddenly drift off the planet, across galaxies, only to return, years later, when nobody wants to know them cause their credit rating's bad or because they can't do the Mashed Potatoes.

"More violence, more cataclysms, more adventure, more car crashes at stoplights and intersections. More meteors and satellites and re-entry pods and debris dropping out of the sky, carrying cryptic filthy messages on slim-line videodiscs hidden under a false layer of paint.

"Hundreds of new world leaders installed every day to replace hundreds of old ones ousted by obscene scandals or by lazy 1-man revolutions. 4 new wars starting every day to replace 3 old ones ending. 7 celebrities born each day, replacing 5 murdered, 4 married, 7 dead by natural causes. 9 new songs on the charts every hour, displacing 8 old ones off. 10 new shows launched each day, replacing 11 old ones cancelled after only a week.

"More mid-air collisions and high-altitude rescues and trainwrecks and nuclear disasters and droughts and bridge collapses and biologic blackmail and accidental missiles dumped from trainer aircraft.

"When I walk down the street and only 3 or 4 shots are fired at me, I find it hard to stay awake."



I was born in a squadron of intelligent, unmanned, stealth glider-bombers that cruised the earth forever. On-board neuro-digital, idiot-precognitive systems, networked throughout the formation, predicted the weather on a moment-by-moment basis, all over the world, and kept the gliders aloft by using today's best air currents to get to tomorrow's.

Thousands of these squadrons decorated the skies over thousands of different cities at once, giving populations their final taste of awe -- and the supreme consolation prize for having put up so well with the complex bullshit of being.


When I was old enough, and ground-based expert systems indicated that the planet was ready for me, I crawled into the co-pilot's seat and pulled the eject lever, as I'd been trained to do on TV airplane school. Instantly, a precise dance of explosive bolts rocketed the seat and me into space. My chute deployed, and below, all life lay spread open before me -- like a nymphomaniac.


When I landed, there was already a job waiting for me at Company Zero -- a really pissed-off, multi-disciplinary, multi-modal, multi-tasking, multi-sexual, underground, pirate, gypsy, hegemonic, corporate behemoth, that spanned the globe but couldn't be found when someone wanted to arrest its president or make it stop.

It didn't have a comm number or a street address or an ether name. It didn't have a Tax/Security ID or encrypted password logo.


I was hired to be one of the many bogus employees of Company Zero, whose only task was to circulate endlessly through the bars and restaurants of a town or city, to give the false impression that our corporate headquarters was somewhere nearby.

In reality, headquarters was randomly relocated many times each month, sometimes to places tucked deep in volcanic mountainsides or to caverns under the sea, where even nuclear explosives couldn't penetrate.

For the non-bogus workers, this meant a new office in a different building or a different city or a different hemisphere or a different world or dimension altogether, every few days.

Appearances, brand name loyalties, friends and families also had to be changed at approximately the same rate.


When I was finally asked to leave the Company Zero apprenticeship program, one day, no specific reason was given, other than a "re-thinking of issues of corporate culture," and a "necessary reallocation of resources, based on unexpected fiscal shortfalls. Or something."


I immediately joined the "Smiling Saint Genocide: Mafia Bitch" Project. Its meetings consisted mostly of its chairman complaining that his monkey had a laptop on its back.

When I got home from these meetings, I'd usually learn that a neighbor or roommate had been dismembered and boiled up in a soup and fed to some community group unbeknownst, and they'd all loved it.


Then I dialed a wrong number, but the therapist who answered couldn't resist running me through a battery of standardized psychological tests, anyway.

A few hours later, she called back.

"After checking and re-checking and cross-checking your results with all my colleagues and mentors and even my students," she said, "It's clear to me and to everyone else, that what you have is simply an extreme case of being multi-, poly-, ultra-, para-, super-, extra-, mega-fucked-up. -- And that's the optimistic assessment."

She told me I'd better do something fast or risk evaporating on contact.

"There is only one place," she said, "That even claims to be able to deal with people like you."

[ End: Part 1 excerpt ]

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