More pens than pain and the utmost remedy, like a still pass and the daily grind coffee shop painted the picture. He bustled into the city every day in a white Cadillac car. It was a couple of days before the white man became a liar and unleashed his half loose nightmare on to Baker Street. He shot a man in Reno at noon on Sunday, claiming it was a strike against the diner being open on a Sunday.
He fled to Las Vegas to find the hopes and dreams that could be repeated by a winning ticket. When he arrived he simply stepped down to the end of an alley hearing the dull wail of dry desert blues. He thought blandly that the music ricocheted through a dead man. It calmed him, as if it was okay to do what he had.
This is when he came across a man from a periodical magazine. This second man saved his change and more or less drafted himself into any sort of indoctrination towards belief. The drifter made a point of trying to scare the writer until the man bowed before him. Quickly, and at risk of a knife the second man knelt and watched as the first turned into the ninth embodied, a knight, speaking those words while he changed his stance and looked skyward.
“That’s some more dead humans, and a mean man charged with nine drinks.” The drifter stated calmly, “They call me Mr. Draft. I usually sit near the back.”
The writer stammered and begged the man softly, “Come on man, most people are good people. You can’t keep me here. Send me back to the street man. I don’t have any money.”
But this fell upon deaf ears. The drifter was soon moving slowly through that alley holding his newly prized suitcase. It was black and shiny and saved from the mess that was made earlier with the knife in the alley. The question is do I continue with this dark story, or should I move towards the psychology of this situation that I am hoping to discuss? Of course, it will be the psychology.
I was talking about my stage act.
The basic premise of our act is that this may have happened to anyone.
But I was a special case. There were other murders that weekend in Death Valley. I just woke up at an orphanage. We all survived, as far as I know. And the family that I have is a loving one. I refused to accept that my father was different from me. He taught me the blues and how to play the fiddle. Very few people know that. It is sort of a stage kind of family and I often tell people that my father is like me. We are very similar in tonal style as well. I suppose that proves that life is learned and not genetic.
But there is an argument to everything. So seeing as life is proven to be genetic our DNA should be tested. It is very similar, and I relate a story about finally learning was racism is. But that is a different story. This is about the psychology of being someone who I know the whole time while not understanding why the people I could see did not make sense. These people were in my head. That is proof of schizophrenia. So the man gives me medicine, and I take it without the spoon of sugar.