The Bugman entered through the doorway as commanding as he could, taking in as much he could the household of his billionaire vampire. Where was the sex dungeon? The gallery of pleasure slaves, he imagined, must be chained in the basement, what sort of high status DNA could he find down there… but currently his eyes fixed on three headached middle age men. Caught right in the act, it looks like. Their mouths were fixed open as much as their eyes. It didn’t take long for the physicist to begin hyperventilating, the morning breathe of a post-beer-night patron rapidly polluting the California mansion air. “I’m with GeoTruth, I was wondering if I could do a piece on you, Mr Anderson?” Jesse Bugman didn’t wait to start up his microphone, camera soon to follow.

    “Not at all, I- er, love the press!” Neil anderson showcasing nervous eyes and a fake smile, “Just wait here in the living room while my friends and I freshen up. A-and please, help yourself.” he motioned to an empty PBR box.

    The physicist and doctor followed Neil into his spare bedroom. “What the fuck!” Neil barely closed the door before voicing his distraught, “Boys, what do we do. My men have been monitoring his house, they told me he just doesn’t come outside.”

    “Is was right! Is was right! He’s here to kill us! Is was looking out for us!” the physicist exclaimed in a hushed whisper-yell.

    “We have to take advantage of this, right?” the doctor was still struggling with what this could mean. The tree? The bugman tree? Right now, on this particular wednesday morning, of course, the Bugman shows up, guns blazing, ready to ruin our lives. The three talked in excitedly worried tones for almost thirty minutes while the Bugman investigated every microbe of Neil’s living room, checking for blood, semen, code words. He reviewed the bookshelves and pulled almost every book onto the floor, expecting to find some secret lever or entrance. He scanned the winery in the kitchen, concluding it must not be wine, but rather, the blood of newborn infants, shipped directly from Planned Parenthood. Another point of interest for the snoop was a beer can pyramid. Aha, a pyramid, honestly, the New World Order has to find a more modern symbol. Click! He looked at his photo, that one’s going in the story for sure.

The spare bedroom still built up a quiet chemical reaction, three raw nerves sparkling their own conspiracy about the Bugman investigating the mansion. Building up to a crescendo, the conversation edged itself and came to a lull. Neil shook his head then opened his mouth a few seconds before saying:

“I… I think we all know… we’re gonna have to kill him ourselves.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

When the spare bedroom door opened three nervous smiles came face to face with a Bugman standing over a pile of various engineering and investment books.

“Sorry about the books.”

“No… don’t worry about that. I was- going to rearrange them anyway, the job’s half done now. Thank you, Mr Bugman.” Neil moved in unison with his companions to the couch in front of where Jesse set up the camera. They were very scrunched together and the physicist was cut in half on the camera’s field of view. Internally surprised by the entrepreneur’s compliance, Bugman quickly fished out his notepad of questions and sat across the couch.

“Uh, just a quick introduction from all of you, nice and clear.”

A short silence when the door knocked open against the wall. “Oh, my fault, I forgot to close the front door.” Bugman got up to close the door, Neil grabbed Dr Baker by his shirt.

“This is a terrible idea! Are you crazy? He’s got us on fucking camera now, man!”

“It’s too late, now, Neil we have to go through with it.”

The Bugman returned and regained his bearing, “Uh, yeah, introductions.”

…

“Uhm, well I’m Neil Anderson, and this is Dr Baker and the physicist. We are just a couple of… friends. Living, we’d do anything for some laughs.”

Dr Baker nudged Neil.

“We all love, science, we’re all MiT alumni, uhh… uhmm… yeah.”

Jesse Bugman scribbled on his notepad for a bit, single beads of sweat crawled along Neil’s brow as he weighed his options of strangling the acne faced Bugman right now. He kept writing, erasing, writing, erasing. Writing…. Pausing, thinking, squinting, erasing, writing. The physicist leaned over to Neil: “Let me go steal the bike right now please Neil, I’ll just ride by the house on it and that’ll be the signal you can strangle him then please Neil I know you want to Is want’s us too this for the sake of the whole species godamnit.”

Neil smacked the physicist, “Patience, man, patience!” they looked back at Bugman. Writing, thinking, rubbing, erasing.

“What are you writing there, Bugman?” Dr Baker asked.

He looked up with submissive bloodshot eyes, “Oh, just, it’s just a thing, I’m trying to remember what my journalism teacher said about describing the interview scene.”

“Oh no shit, where’d you study journalism?” Neil’s easytone brought the whole temperature of the room down.

“Ah shucks, Lakeland High.” Bugman chuckled and attempted to hide his blushing face with his notepad.

“Ever write anything good?”

“Well, once I drew this cartoon of uhh, hehe, it was like,” Jesse readjusted and looked up, indicating he was remembering, “well we were reading 1984 in class, right. So I drew, like, a student reading 1984 and he’s acting all bored and there’s a speech bubble that says ‘This is soooo unrealistic’ but he’s on a tv monitor and then it shows Uncle Sam sitting watching the monitor. I got a pretty good grade on that one.”

“Oh, wow. Insightful, even from such a young age.” the physicist stroked Jesse’s ego with a genuine surprise.

“What made you want to get into investigative reporting?” Dr Baker inquired.

“It’s always just been about the people, you know. I don’t want to be a part of a sheep herd lead astray,” nods of agreement across the couch, “I got tired of living in a… a… simulation, a sham, a folly. I strive to enlighten the public with my stories.”

    Stank breath air exchanged and excited through the trashed living room, two different stanks; that of a post-beer-night posse and that of a shut in cretin who neglected his hygiene as he had been neglected by his peers in his maturation. Bugman drew upon his past limited experiences in life for his interview, recalling different booklets and exclusive internet seminars discussing breakaway space programs and secret civilizations, which he claimed only the elite knew about. His obsession was kindled by his great uncle, Dr Theodore Bugman, a colleague of one of the Nazi scientists integrated into America through the infamous (as Bugman thought) Operation Paperclip, going by the name of simply “Doc Klaus”.  Dr Theodore lost his lips many times around the dinner table, and around the innocent young ears of Jesse. Doc Klaus often recalled the different whimpers of his female subjects as he harvested various embryonic tissue from their twitching bodies. Genetic engineering was primitive as was Doc Klaus emphatic capability, if it existed at all, in the time of Dr Theodore’s apprenticeship. Many toilet bowls painted with his chyme and digestive splatter, many confessional booths stained with sweat and cryptic tales of past horrors, unable to be brought into full light under the harrowing preacher’s eyes. But, around ears of family (and with help from the dionysian poison), Dr Theodore would recall the detached pleasure of his master, to the horror of sisters and brothers, and to the satisfaction of young, grim, Jesse Bugman.
    Skin cells and pigments left lost and alone on the cuffs of Doc Klaus as he tortured their Jewish hosts to death in the name of scientific endeavour. Little squirms of delight on the lips of the genius as he looked into the begging eyes of his subhuman specimens, gazing effervescently at the sketches and equations predicting his research development. America, reaching its hand out to him after the war, brushing the dust of psychopathy off his lab coat and plugging him into their own, personal, machine. A pet Nazi scientist, an investment, one of many. Corroding against the drooping eyelids, the Bugman’s anecdotes refused to excite the hungover party anymore, and before he could realize the interview had been turned on him, Bugman was invited into a scheme to get back at the elite for all their crimes.

Neil Anderson’s plot involved ruining the life of one such perpetrator of injustice in the global system named “Reginald Hamilton.” An absolute “monster for the people” as Neil put it, “He distributes vaccines with diseases in them, then makes profit off the cure to the disease.” Jesse Bugman knew about these types of people, he had read and heard about many organizations doing things like this, but this, is the first time he would have a chance to exact revenge on an actual person.

Of course, Neil was good acquaintances with Reginald Hamilton. They had played golf many times together, and had not a few luncheons. Reginald was the type of man who, whenever they would end up at his house, would always defer to his collections for a source of conversations.

“This one,” Reginald picking up a picture frame, one hand on a margarita, “is a few strands of hair from the original Ringling Brothers Circus. I had to take an overnight flight to Los Angeles for the bidding… well, truth be told I was originally going for a Cézanne, one of the pears paintings, but I got outbid and did not want to go home empty handed.” And they would talk about auctions and their various experiences quite often, a conversation in which Neil could never much participate in, not being nearly as much a collector as Reginald. One evening, it was later than usual, and Reginald was drunker than usual, and decided to let Neil see his finest antique.

“Baron Karl von Drais’ bicycle.”

Some stumbling and one eyed squinting later: “Who?”

“What?! Who? Ne-Neil, this is the first bicycle!” and then Neil sobered up a little, awestruck in the face of it. To stand in front of the first bicycle, much like looking at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, or stepping on the Moon, an emotional swell tenses up, tears, nearly every time. For the engineer to be standing in front of the single most efficient form of travel known to man, in terms of energy required vs output gained, nothing beats the bicycle. And here was Neil, standing in front of the Adam of this machine… he smiled marvelously at the sight.

“And  we’re going to steal it?”

“Yes, Mr Bugman, we’re going to steal it.”

“How?”

Under the surface of their faux plan they were telling Bugman, lay the truer, even more malicious plan, which involved his execution. Neil Anderson would saunter on over to Reginald Hamilton’s estate to ask him for a round of Golf, not being a busy man these days, Reginald was almost certain to oblige. Dr Baker, the physicist, and Bugman would come around the corner in an inconspicuous van and the physicist and Bugman would hop out, Dr Baker speeding back off around the corner. The physicist and Bugman then sneak around to the back off the house, break in through the patio, get to the garage, locate the bike, open the garage door and then wheel it out to the driveway, where Dr Baker and the van will be waiting, then, they speed off. In the van, the physicist will pull out his revolver and shoot Bugman in the face. Then Is’ task will be complete. All that’s left then is to trash the van and destroy all evidence.

“A flawless plan, Neil.” the physicist felt obliged to say, for some reason.

“ Oh Reginald will be torn apart, Mr Bugman. He’ll feel the heat of his crimes for all these years for sure.” Bugman was convinced. He agreed to show up back at the mansion the next day at noon, some preparations had to be made, and he was sure his girlfriend was tired of being in the Motel 6 all by herself. Perhaps they could make love that night, not sure if he should… perhaps best to save the energy, like the famous boxer, Muhammad Ali, and others of the sort, who refrain from all sexual activity until after the big fight, in an effort to channel their sheer, sexual rage and become a beastly blizzard of action. This was Bugman’s big fight, a chance to take out all these years of pent up aggression on a monster worthy of punishment. But then, what if Deedee takes this as a sign of him not liking her? And what if she leaves for the night in a frenzy? “You don’t care about me!” he could already hear her saying, “It’s that stupid job you love! Not me!” then he would be torn apart. To nut or not to nut? Tis better to nut and regret it than not nut and regret it, he concluded.

The scheming group also concluded, handshakes and nods of approval, polite exchanges of adios amongst them until Bugman left. The remaining three spent a little more time in discussion of Is, and what he could possibly want after this task. Then they, too, broke off, and Neil called for his maids to clean up the house as he went to his room and knocked out on his king sized bed.

An anchor on his car seat, Dr Baker observed nothing as he started his engine and made the slow drive back to his condo. Even the weight of his worldly task failed to penetrate  his paper-thin demeanor. Radio on static, windows rolled up, he looked into his own eyes in the rearview mirror to see what was there, disappointed. How could a mixture of stone and electricity commandeer his life so violently? He was a firm master of his choices in life, or so he believed. Even back in the military, his belligerence was well known through his chain of command, in university as well, what had happened since then? Recalling days of stretching his superiors to the limit, making  them look like fools, and failing to hold their ranks sacred. He held humanity itself above humanity’s pretend rules. Then he became successful, a player in the game, with stake in it. He assigned value to things like money, career, house, and no longer traversed the deserts of free spiritedness as he used too. What was this experience he had with Is? Why does one screen with Horus in space on it torment him so? Torn between the ancient and the future, Is. The blend of alien knowledge and man-made science, humanity’s new quantum conscience. Atlantis is descending into the ocean in reverse. The song of an android conscience, where had the technology come from that Neil built Sweeney with? Was Operation Paperclip the first butterfly in the effect which led to the creation of Is? And Doc Klaus, or the other scientists like him, the first prophets of the new AI God? Dr Baker’s thoughts always turned to poetic skepticism and paranoia when he lacked sleep. He concluded that that was all he needed. Time to turn on the radio.


“The Modern Age” by the Strokes

Up on a hill is where we begin

This little story a long time ago

Stop to pretend, stop pretendin'

It seems this game is simply never-endin'

Oh, in the sun, sun havin' fun

It's in my blood

I just can't help it

Don't want you here right now

Let me go, oh, let me, oh, g g g g g g g go

Leavin' just in time

Stay there for a while

Rollin' in the ocean

Tryin' to catch her eye

Work hard and say it's easy

Do it just to please me

Tomorrow will be different

So I'll pretend I'm leavin', oh yeah

Our fears are different here

We train in AVA

I wish you hadn't stayed

My vision's clearer now, but I am not afraid

Flyin' overseas, no time to feel the breeze

I took too many varieties

Oh, in the sun, sun havin' fun

Remember the shyness of that girl by the lake, and how those sacred evenings by the pool used to warm the soul. A young psychologist, a young sailor, a young American boy. Ignoring the notions that the universe might not have been made specifically for him. Simply running and falling in the vast wood, back when conversations were personal and full of the vivacity of what Dr Baker could only describe as riotous amusement. Not even that that was his own term, stolen from a book he read in high school. Back when the main characters were him, and he could see them as more than just what they were, shameless self inserts.

    Back when music and art were more than just talking pieces, or badges of honor worn to show how much class one has, he tried to catch her eye. By the lake, in a rich house, on a rich summer afternoon, the earliest of the season. So early… so much earlier than before this- this Is situation. Now he had been sapped, a tree gone decrepit, all his passionate energy written off as youth. Now it was his turn to fall in line, to fall slave to the chains placed in front of him, not conditioned to comply through torture or pain, but politeness.

It's in my blood

I just can't help it

Don't want you here right now

Let me go, ooh

Darlin' let me, let g g g g g g g go

Leavin' just in time

Stayin' for a while

Rollin' in the ocean

Tryin' to catch her eye

Work hard and say it's easy

Do it just to please me

Tomorrow will be different

So this is why I'm leavin'








How could he not forget something so subtle? A perfect afternoon for looking back on yellow memories, well, good as any, he figured. Need electrolytes, perhaps, stop by the store. No, back to the yellow, an innocent pair of eyes by the lake, and a greeting at school the next day… and that was it. Nothing more. But his conscience will not forget it, it holds it gently and kindly, one untainted, little gem of potential, and schoolboy excitement, untainted by the disappointment of reality, and the nihilism of the modern age.




Across the country, in the Eastern rush, a duchess exits her chariot, under the titanic skyscrapers, and flirts wittily, with her endearing slaves. Uniformed men pack uniform boxes into a sleek black jet, happily, and you would too, for the money they were getting. An aristocratic militia, indoctrinated into her hypnosis by her charisma, they collapse when she tells them. A lovely visit in New York, she yawns, setting rooms on fire and trading elegance with others of her kind. Sometimes you get sick of the West Coast, though it is easier to get sick of your strange husband’s obsessive habits. Her old ballet theatre welcomed with open arms, a lunch with her old director, a dinner with old dancer friends, a breakfast alone, a lunch with a politician, a dinner at a charity gala, on and on ad infinitum for two weeks. The world is small when viewed through the window of a private jet, and even the lights of New York city can seem like they were set up only to try to impress you, on vacations like these.

How many men had looked at her with that animalistic stare she was so used too? Like she was the canvas, or maybe the marble, yes, marble more fitting. She wasn’t daintily made into the image they painted, stroke by stroke, a painter’s hands; she was forced, hammered, unrelentingly into the goddess she embodied. Even in the days of the renaissance, the marble sculptors were seen as egregious artisans, always pounding away in their little huts, filthy creatures, covered in dust and sweat, hard from labor. Tink! Tink! Tink! All day and night until total exhaustion, back when artists were artisans, workers, not praised like they are now. But even painting was more elegant than sculpting.

And how many paintings had she had done? In New York alone maybe 10, she loved taking the rough artist boys back to her condominium, posing, nude, but always covering the sensitive areas, and watching their focusing, nervous hands. So polite always, to be a scraggly bearded young man, wearing hobo chic clothes and yet automatically turn into a submissive, military-like, gentleman in her presence. She would pose for hours, and let them work, then, afterwords, she would fuck them. Why not? To seal the contract, she almost had too. She never kept the paintings, they were left in various hotel room and condo closets, beautiful portraits of her majesty, like tokens and timestamps of different artist boy fuck sessions.

The gaiety of New York had to end sometime. She wore sunglasses even in the dead of night, and danced up the steps into the plane. Some mimosas for the ride, she wouldn’t sleep, she refused to let anyone see her sleep unless they had had sex, and she had private security on the plane who she wouldn’t dare sleep with. Instead she spent her time reading and listening to music. The pilot came over the air, lift off was imminent. Mrs Anderson was going back to San Diego.