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Sunday, September 3, 2017

Book number two from Presidential Guardians



Failure isn’t an Option
By
Roy Marshall

In the past, I’ve failed…

Prologue

The first stones came tumbling down from the wall. Cheers arise from the crowds. On both sides of the wall. People. Americans, Germans, East Germans, and even some of the Russian guards with their automatic weapons poised at the ready. A previously necessary display of tyrannical belief. That humans need to be divided, controlled. Human ideology at its worst.
Today, the world will change.
I helped.
Failure, wasn’t an option. This time.
From my vantage point inside the Eastern Brandenburg gate seated on a second floor veranda at the Academie der Kunste; I watch what is probably the largest party ever to occur in the civilized world. Some two million people crossed through the eight checkpoints during the night. At ten last evening, Gunter Shabowski announced the removal of travel restrictions for any that wanted to leave East Germany.
The guards were overwhelmed.
In just fourteen hours those two million East German residents fled their homes, their lives, their existence, to flee across a very real barrier between two differing ideologies governing what was once one country. Now, it’s a celebration. The shackles of tyranny, of separatism, thrown off. People, united once again.
My involvement began three years ago. On a farm in Wisconsin.

Chapter one
Cow shit. It’s everywhere. Dried piles, fresh steamy ones, large piles, small ones. Yucky gross runny ones and in small spots interspersed here and there, islands of mud. It’s a dairy farm. I’ve never been to one. I did not expect seeing this much shit. I did not expect to get it all over my sneakers.
I have, for the past couple years, been asked to assist in varying activities that utilize my specific talents. I’m an empath. Without that definitive knowledge, my ability to assist has become legendary here in my new adopted home. Those needing help, come to me, and deeds are done. And done again, and again. 
I’ve deterred bullies, intervened in personal and business disputes, leveled playing fields, and achieved notoriety as one who places the needs of the underdog against overwhelming odds of those with money, power, influence, and are to my own personal assessment, just pricks. I’m always busy.
 There are a lot of pricks in this world. Even here in Oconomowoc Wisconsin.
Once a deed is done, referrals occur. As has brought me today. Here, now, I gingerly step through the still steaming piles of cow shit and make my way toward the door of the largest building in the area. The calls of cows, mooing, come from there. Humans must be there as well. Once at the door, I enter. A milking barn, filled with cows. Long lines of them, separated by metal bars. Each with their heads toward the walls, and their shit producing asses pointed toward one of the two center aisle ways. I watch as tails lift and more shit is added to the tremendous volume already covering the open areas.
After a moment, I’m noticed. A young man stands, sees me and yells out the name of the man I’m here to see. “Yusef, there’s a guy here!’
Over in the second row of cows a head pops up and looks about. Seeing me, he moves over toward me. Yelling to the young man, “I take minute to see this man, you watch lines Yes?”
The young man nods, then drops from sight. His activity is unknown to me. It’s a cow barn. I’ve never seen what happens here.
Yusef comes over to me with hand extended. We shake, the man is a simple pleasant man, confused, expectant. Hopeful. “You be Dennis Menace yes?”
Crap. That moniker. “Actually, Dennis Menaccio. They call me that for some reason. I’m glad to meet you. I’ve never been to such a place as this. It’s a bit disconcerting.:”
“Not know what mean. We go to house, talk dere.”
He leads off toward the other end of the barn from where I entered.  I’m a bit slower, stepping here and there to avoid the largest piles of shit. Yusef just plods through it all. In minutes he’s at the door, I’m still a ways back. “Ah, sorry bout shit. Not knows ya wears dos shoes. We go.”
After I catch up to him, we leave and move the short distance to a house. At the steps, he knocks off the clinging mounds of shit and then removes his big rubber boots. “You take shoes off. Men wash later. You be fine. Then come inside.”
I sit on the second step and take my sneakers off. Caked with cow crap, I set them to the side. Stepping around the piles of shit on the stairs, I follow the man into the house. Once inside I’m surprised at the furnishings. Danish Modern, functional, not necessarily bleak, but utilitarian.
Sitting on the sofa where he indicates, he lets himself down in a sidechair across from me. A huge sigh escapes from the man. “Dah, I not knows ya halp with me problems. Eno say you halp others. Say I need talk to ya.”
“Eno Anders, the mayor?”
“Ya.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Weird shit. Say yous make men tink diffent. Make um not do bad shit. You do dat?”
“Yes.”
His look of incredulity with my candid answer surprises me. He was told, he asked, I’m here. It shouldn’t be a shock. I wait for him to continue.
“I gots problem. Two. You help?”
“If I can. Tell me about these problems. We’ll see. I can’t perform miracles, but I can do simple things. What’s the problem?”
Sitting back in his chair he thinks a minute before responding. Confusion. Hope. Both within him. “One. Kids. I got lot kids work for me. You know what milkin machine be?”
“Well, I think so. A mechanical device used to milk cows. You seem to have a lot of cows, more than could be milked by hand. So, I guess, it milks the cows.”
“Da. Suck milk from cow. Dat be probem. Suck other tings too.”
I’m lost. This is making no sense to me. “And, what do you mean?”
The man sighs. Resignation. A problem that is difficult to explain. “Kids, day stick pecker in machine, day come in machine. I needs stop dem.”
Shit. Yeah this is just about the weirdest thing I could ever imagine. This man’s employees using his equipment for erotic purposes. Masturbation into a milking machine.
Weird.
I don’t drink milk. Never have. Just never had a taste for it. It isn’t that my sexual practices haven’t kept me from putting my mouth where there might in fact be some of my own ejaculate; I don’t think that I would be at all interested in knowing that a common grocery store staple contains the same from random kids working on a dairy farm. 
 Where to begin. “Ummmmm. I think I see the problem. I, ummm. Well, if I think about it, there might be a way.”
All things have a solution. Fear. One of the biggest emotions humans have. I can use it. Everyone wants to protect his stuff. It’s just a matter of implanting into the minds of his workers a belief that something untoward can happen should this bizarre, incredibly bizarre, activity continue. Simple.
“Dah, you help?”
“Yes, I can help. Can you bring in one of the young men. We can start there.”
His look of relief belies his feelings of hopelessness. Even Yusef is at his wit’s end. Knowing, hoping, exasperated. This is why he brought me here.
It isn’t something outside the realm of possibilities.
Yusef leaves, I relax. It will take a bit of energy to do what I need. The young man comes in first, stocking feet. Yusef right behind.
I stand to greet the man. Yusef helps by telling the man his name. Doug.
“Doug, let me introduce myself, I’m Dennis Menaccio.” As we shake hands, his youth, his overall belief in the world comes to me in a wave that tells me just how simple his life is. Work, drink, movies, jack off into a milking machine. Simple.
“What kin I does fer ya Mr. Menaccioooo.”
Just want to give a heads up to all of you. We’re doing an update on the milking processes here. Something Yusef and I have been in contractual discussion regarding the efficacy of his operations and our new format for his equipment is going to create huge returns on his initial investment. Changes Doug, there’s going to be remarkable changes.”
His look of disbelief only serves to fortify my impression of the young man. A simple young dolt. Dazzling him with bullshit, he understands nothing of the crap I just said. And it’s crap. I just need to grab his hand again.
Once I have his hand in mine, I give him what I need for him to understand. I project a vision of him inserting his penis into the milking machine, and it yanks it off. “It’s all due to increases in pressure and subacute variance in manifold differentiation of individual tolerances.”
The boy’s face changes into this horrified stare.
“And make sure you let the others know about the upgrades that will occur later today.”
The boy drops my hand and turns to run out of the house.  
   “I’m pretty sure that takes care of the problem Yusef. So what’s the second problem you had?”


Chapter 2
“Dat be it. He not fuck machine no more?”
“No.”
“Dah, shit man. You be sure dis.”
“Pretty sure. You need to tinker with the main machine later today, just let them all see you working on it. I’m certain the concept will be well spread amongst the others. The problem should be solved. So what’s the second thing you wanted to talk to me about?”
Disbelief. Even though others have expressed the outcomes of my involvement having given results, this isn’t what was expected.
However I’m sure he had no idea what to expect. My methods are beyond the comprehension of most.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Poetry from the heart, about the heart


Heartless





realistically I allowed her to remove my heart and chop holes the size of rainy afternoons through and through the thing
why should you care telling me later, you never use the damn thing
she, SHE, was the one, meeting her began a transitional transformation within me,
growth, real human growth where I no longer thought of her, of all the women in my life as anything more than masturbatory aides,
spitoons for my sperm
instead, something akin to human form
that in itself was a monumental hurdle
it's not as though I ever once acknowledged that she might be a real person
capable of changing me
it's not as though I ever truly exhibit anything resembling emotions
even I'm not certain if they were there or just totally absent from my existence
It's not as though I ever inquired about any aspect of her life, tasks, friends, family
perhaps it is indeed as if I just   plain   didn't    care
she told me that my belief that I am superior to everyone was baseless
I responded that I only felt superior to those that I'm superior to.
her laugh allowed me to see just how silly that is
she rode with me on sepia rainbows toward the infinite sovereignty of my individual consciousness tricking my mind with intent, and desire
allowing me to learn that the color of love isn't visible, it's an expression, an intent,
a barrage of pleasures, multi-orgasmic, breathless, messy, and yet ever so satisfying
an embrace of reality between two naked bodies sharing time space passion smells sweat
pleasure

I can't ask her to return the pieces, I'm sure she tossed them about, the detritus of just another of the relationships, the conquests, the dissections of men she performed
there is no method for reassembly of one's heart, when one has never before needed it
used it, or allowed it to surface,
is it truly necessary?
I’m thinking now, yes…