[Cont.]
I now abandon my car while it is still rolling forward. I punch a hole in the roof, which is my signature move, and I leap out and fall onto the concrete. In the process, I break both arms and both legs, plus I crack my skull; but this doesn’t stop me from proceeding to get back up and run toward my Fate, however laboriously and now in total pain: for I intend to accomplish my mission at full speed. (I think the bad luck of landing on the hard patio in front of an abandoned amusement park instead of on a soft surface like a yarn-filled swimming pool was a spiritual punishment for the act of selfishly leaving my very pregnant wife and all our children in the car while jumping out — for, perhaps if I had grabbed all their hands and brought the whole fam with me, after punching a bigger hole in the vehicle’s ceiling so that we all could fit thru, we might each individually have broken just one of our appendages, instead of me myself alone breaking all four-and-a-half. But, saith the proverb: Karma is a Bichon Frise.) And what is my mission? I think I’m simply trying to forget my life.
So the first thing I do is learn everything. This way, the facts and knowledge and ideas that set up shop within my mind leave no room for memories of childhood or youth or young adulthood to remain — all those latter personal reminiscences must move out: “You’re all evicted,” I tell them. Especially the recollections of being a middle-aged man. “Go find a mind with more available vacancies.” (Then I spit at them.)
Next I become a foreign person. I change my garb, my hairstyle, my way of life, and my worldview. Then I go haunt the regular folk who just want to raise their children in a peaceful, stable culture. Soon the regular folk label me a bad guy, and they send a team of multinational armies to hunt me down. Keep in mind, my arms and legs are all still broken, and my skull still has a fracture that, at any moment, could expand into a fault line large enough to cause oozing magma to become my exterior blood type.
So I hide out in a house that belongs to my friend and his wife. They risk their hides to save me from the transnational task force, which has now occupied their ritzy neighborhood. “Sorry about all this,” I say to my benefactors. “It’s OK,” they reply; “we weren’t planning on dining out during this fiscal quarter anyway.”
But now a wonderful fact gets written into the history books: The mobs of multinational militaries manage to mute me. I put up a courageously wild fight, and it lasts for forty days and forty nights: I cause the nations to doubt whether they’ll be able to succeed in even finding me (because I move so stealthily, despite all my broken arms and legs); but eventually a bullet rolls onto the floor, directly before me, while I’m dashing from tree to tree in the nighttime forest, trying to make it to the icebox so that I can scoop myself some soft-serve (I am holding a cone, all the while, which is sadly empty), whereupon… WHONK! — I step down onto the aforementioned stray bullet and die in my sleep. The cone is crushed by my fall: I never do obtain any cream.
They put me in a coffin and cross my arms over my chest and paint makeup on my face to pretty me up — they go quite heavy on the rouge — so that I ultimately look identical to a not-yet-risen Tolstoy. (See John’s Gospel 20:17, “He saith unto her, ‘Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended’.”) Voluptuous women of every type come to view me in my coffin, and none can resist leaning forth and kissing my poor corpse on the lips; which is very good for me as a professional actor, because I get a lot of tongue action from co-stars that I didn’t even know desired my body. (In order to keep in character, I continue repeating to myself mentally: “Have patience, Yoshi Muk-Donk: after the shoot, we shall all rise up to play in the hotel.” (See Exodus 32:6, the golden calf episode, where “the people sat down to drink, and rose up to play”.) For I never call myself “Bryan Ray” when sending messages to myself from above: I always use either the pet name “Yoshi Muk-Donk,” or “Tertius Radnitsky,” or “Sigismund F.,” or “Arjuna,” or “Son of God.”)
So then, after the shoot and the hotel jamboree, I get back out on the road and hitchhike. I like this pastime because it’s educational, as one meets so many interesting new personalities; it also keeps the blood flowing, as one must run from so many psychopaths. — Wishing, however, to eliminate the amount of dangerous people that I must deal with, while increasing the amount of healthy bubbly flirtatious eager bright souls, I decide to solve the political conundrums of the world. Nobody’s ever thought to do this before, so I step up and lend my knack. Simultaneously I implement several changes to every governmental structure that does not contain these things: I make homelessness impossible; I make hunger impossible; I make good parenting lucrative; and I guarantee the finest healthcare worldwide, free of charge. The way that I pay for these things is by taking just the tip-top triangle off the wealthiest individuals’ coin-mountains as a World-Peace Tax. It ends up only removing a very small fraction of the total coinage from the peak of each pyramid, corresponding to the all-seeing eye.*
[* Also known as the Eye of Providence. For further details and a chance to get stared at by this phenomenon, see the reverse side of the Great Seal of the United States.]
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