Memoirs »
PICKLE JUICE – Chapter 6
Chapter 12345678910

“The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.”
–James A. Baldwin

Before booking, he was waiting in his street clothes in a confinement cell with his feet crossed in front of him. The boots started rubbing against each other in Morse code so fast he couldn’t make out more than a couple letters. Something serious was in store, and he was glad to know aliens were going to be by his side. His comfort level peaked and he was booked and placed in a room with three other psych patients.

At arraignment, the judge asked him if he realized he wouldn’t see the firearm again. It is possible the Judge wanted to skip the hearing, skip the trial, and go straight to a conviction. The legal novice thought that a decision whether or not he would see the firearm again should be reserved until after a trial, so he said, “I don’t agree with it,” and was punished with a refusal of release on his own recognizance. The psychiatric team wanted to give him medications. Justin asked the psychiatrist what medications he was taking and the doctor refused to answer, saying, “I’m an expert.” Justin stopped talking to him. He would hear inmates in the floor below yelling and chanting things like “fresh meat.” Justin would bang back on the pipes and bedframe in Morse code instructions like who to arrest for not being released immediately on diplomatic grounds. None of it happened. One patient spoke of hearing voices of the officers talking about a rape suspect. Justin thought of his biography. The guy actually failed a suicide attempt because the voices, “started out nice with pleasant music, then turned bad.” One 45 year old patient full of tattoos and hard time, told him about his multiple contract killings; and would insist on showering whenever Justin did–in the same room. Both were actually very nice people, but could have been scary to many. Newspapers spoke of despair and he yelled, “fix it!” Within minutes, he was released into general population.

My dog came home from a run one day nursing a cut paw. I tended to it myself instead of getting stitches at a vet. She allowed me to sanitize the wound with bravery. She kept the bandage on for a day or so but wanted it off after that. The sliced portion of her pad withered. She never complained about it again.

He spent a year in county jail waiting for a trial where his condition and nutrition took a sharp turn. Every twitch and itch took on a special meaning. In his first general population cell, he would lay in bed and just focus on what he felt. They would teach him their personality by morse code in his stomach grumblings, and by giving him bits of pain when they didn’t like what he was thinking. They would swing his right foot outward for “yes” and inward for “no.” They would pinch his bicep to say, “but I accept,” and so on. Inmates would play dice. It’s a social game with lots of action; perfect to break up the monotony of the long drab days in jail. It was clear some had telekinetic abilities as they waved their hand over the dice. Justin gave the game a try, but didn’t have as good luck.

He lay in bed; a sharp zap ran through his leg in morse code, “-D-T-A-” (Don’t Touch Anyone). He felt that he could not allow himself to be touched. Someone touched him several times as soon as he went downstairs to the common area, saying words like giving “Satan” to Justin. He felt that people who looked at him were stealing authority being granted to him. One person glanced at him with his right eye, and another with his left. He went to his cell and washed himself with water from head to toe, then lied down to refocus on what to do next. “Take it back,” he thought (a mistake), to be rid of what he thought was a curse. Later, he was writing the testimony he planned on giving at court, and his cell mate’s foot was seized and bumped into his writing hand as he got into bed. Justin immediately began only writing incriminating things. He felt he was infected with an evil spirit, and had to let out blood to reverse it. He methodically washed his body and hands, the sink and toilet, every surface had to squeak to know it was safe, then he damned to hell the spirit inhabiting his cell mate. He took a razor and cut his finger. Safe. Then his finger touched the sink and he was now reinfected. He cut another finger to reverse it. Four fingers were dripping before they went around collecting razors. It must have been quite a sight, blood dripping down the walls and laid out all over the floor. They saw the blood and removed him. Everywhere Justin moved his hand to clean up, blood dripped to the floor from each finger. bandaged up the four fingers using no peroxide, and put him in a cell wearing only a safety vest with no toilet, bed or sink. He stood facing the wall waiting for further instruction. After a half hour, he turned around and faced the door, waiting. A guard sneezed, and Justin said, “bless you.” He overheard someone saying, “no more” referring to Justin’s right to bless. He crossed his eyes. “Keep doing that,” he heard. After a few hours, he realized he was staying there. When he got tired of crossing them, he closed his eyes, and lied down. The boy in the cell next to him began crying out asking why he was stuck there, as if he were buried alive. Justin would tap morse code, don’t look, don’t touch, don’t even breathe, to help them be free of seizure. He asked many questions telepathically, both leading up to and during the naked time, and was trained in detail as to the number of people addressing him and their capabilities and body language. Intensified were very real, profound, trenchant, strengthening and soothing delusional perceptions and hallucinations; and also spells negotiating through terrifying, penetrating, irreverent, and unwelcome ones. His body was inched along the floor in morse code. He tried to memorize the letters because they were of a strange language. As the movements were totally unique, there could be no question as to whose body an alien onlooker was observing from afar. Justin was granted two damnations on spirits he deemed appropriate, and he held his hand carefully closed awaiting his opportunity to meet those two men again. Images of various animals were imprinted on his mind. He would spit out bad thoughts and swallow after each animal was introduced. He accidentally spit out an image of a shark, and began searching around with his eyes closed to find and lick the floor at the right spot. A nearby cell inhibitor made a scuffing noise and all of a sudden, the whole floor was wet. He had lost the shark. Desperate for water, he thought that he would be rescued by angels. He offered himself up for sacrifice, asking as a last wish only a small bottle of Jack to have and a cigar. Jim Carrey wrote a song about it, “cause you couldn’t pry the gun from your cold dead hand.”

A man with an american accent claiming to be a psychiatrist stood outside the cell door, allegedly talking to another inmate, but responding to Justin’s Morse code on the floor. Before Justin could tap a full sentence, the man already had asked a different question; but where the next word out of Justin’s hand would be an incriminating and false one. The man started responding to his thoughts. “You don’t need to yell,” he frequently said, because Justin was forcing blood to his head to press the words he was thinking. Even then, he would quickly ask a question where the next thought Justin had would have answered him in an incriminating way. The man would later refer to himself as number one. He began sweeping the floor everywhere that was dry with his hand and making a slurry with milk, then eating everything to prevent the loss of good vibes from happening again.

When he was let out, the inmates cleaning cells were bragging about a rape, and Justin reached out to touch him. He was moved to a holding cell, and demanded a cell by himself so he could meditate and cleanse himself. He was moved to a room with a cellmate, who was sleeping, and Justin began washing his hands and body and drinking water for 15 minutes straight. He saw one of the men (he couldn’t find the other though his voice was thrown in all directions nearby), reached out to touch him, but did it wrong–actually equalizing power instead of removing the evil spirit. He ran back to his cell to wash his body clean. The television was speaking horrors about total disaster in the future. Water dripped off his hands to the back wall of the toilet making an upside down “Y” indicating two paths that would follow, one of which drained into the toilet in a pool of anarchy. He began scribbling the Morse code of the two paths on a piece of paper bag. His body was seized and his arm began dipping into the toilet and splashing water on his face, his hand touching the desk attached to the wall and slowly moving down to ground; what would be understood as a way to rid himself of the bad touch; when an inmate called the guards who dragged him away. He kept his eyes closed as he was stripped and left. Just like wiping himself clean, there was a special way to stand up to free himself of the dirty evil surrounding floor. He spent two hours rolling up to a kneeling position, pressing the evil out of him, to eventually stand. He tired of exhaustion and fell back to the floor. One inmate said, “he’s the only man in the news.” Eventually Justin awoke and opened his eyes, still naked, and they didn’t let him out. He wrapped himself in a sheet. An inmate had raided his first cell with lots of paperwork, addresses and phone numbers to Justin’s family. The inmate called his brother and accused Justin of attempting to commit suicide. They thought it was an official, so they booked plane tickets to visit him in jail, but Justin wouldn’t see them because he was scared to open his eyes to anyone, resulting in scathing letters of how thousands of dollars were wasted during the time interest was only shown in him while he was restrained.

Some mind readers wanted me to cut out one of my own eyes, saying, “Pick one.” As a toddler, I was playing under a tree, and while crawling out, a stick went directly into my right eye. I blinked and felt it obstructing my eyelid. I reached up and grabbed the end of it and pulled it out, feeling it slide out from inside of my eye. It was blurry for a short time and fully recovered. Nobody believed me.

When asked in jail to purposely cut my eye out, I decided against it; preferring to close one eye depending on the material at which I was reviewing. This censorship angered them, invisibly fighting to force my eye open.

The guards forgot to feed him, so he complained. They told him the kitchen was closed. Three or four meals were missed in ten days. He spelled out commissary using pieces of oranges and slid it under the door on an inmate request form. With other orange peelings, he drew a map to the location of his lost backpack. He looked at the wall and saw a fly. “I see it,” a woman said on television. He asked for a shower. Refused. He looked out the window and saw the long haired man who he had failed to rid of the evil had finally showered, and he had a huge grin of power on his face. Two weeks went by and the door opened. Justin brought a towel out into the main room and sat. He was dragged back into the cell. An inmate walked by his cell proclaiming, “Not you.” He would fight the guards by covering the window with a shirt and wedged spoons in the door frame to hold it there. They would come by and rip it down. So one day Justin put mayonnaise all around the flap so when they took the shirt, they’d get smeared. The guard that hit the booby trap gave him a real dirty look. Justin pretended to be asleep one day when guards were doing name tag checks. They entered his cell and yanked the blanket off. Justin sprung up and “attacked a deputy,” putting his hand in the face of the guard and pushing himself out of the cell. He got past both of them, one arm free, and then gave up. When he was a child, Justin would be punished with spankings hours after an infraction. These correction officers rightly pinned him to the ground and continued to justifiably hit him in the back of the head to punish right away bad behavior–regardless of whether or not he was fed. Justin turned to face it, and the guard suddenly stopped. [prisoner] “has nosebleed and has blood on right ear.” That made it difficult to keep his mouth shut as he was breathing heavily after the altercation. He tried to keep his eyes shut tight, but they were automatically forced open as they stripped him of his clothes and brought his naked body to a safety cell. “We need to metab off whatever intox he may have OR psych stabilization prior to further eval.” Been behind bars for 45 days and had given up alcohol for lent over a month before. Still no toxicology assholes. In fact “psych stabilization” is toxins, but this field only concerns itself with divining facts on the ground that fit their narrative regarding the less dangerous ones. Justin was said to have chronic marijuana dependency throughout the incarceration simply because he smoked it on the recommendation of a doctor, the night before running away from home (which he had planned for weeks) and two days before going to jail. Do you know what happens if you miss two days from psych meds? Complete psychiatric breakdown, confusion, anger, real physical withdrawal. Justin had been off meds for 18 months when he went to jail, after a year of giving it a try, and required no medication at all for 27 years of his life before that. The first thing on these pusher’s minds was to get him hooked, to subdue and so that he would fit the stereotype if he ever was non-compliant. They were obsessed with it. He spent another five days naked in a cell with no toilet, bed, or sink.

A light in the dark
is totally sighted by
someone’s reflection

Here’s the game: If he could tune out or effectively hide from the bad infectious mind readers, people in his proximity treated him well. If he could not, people treated him miserably. He was made to believe that this was his only recourse during the incarceration. At first it was all informative. He would think of questions and his thumb would go up or down. He would make decisions and his upper arm would tickle or hurt depending on how they “try to accept” it. They were divided into eight jobs, three cycling for movement of each arm, and a fourth for each leg including balance. All would only speak by touch, plus a head alien who would speak through the television as well. Their teaching him angered a few at the top, or maybe they simply tired of Justin’s constant inquiries; but it was a battle to keep them around. He collected and sorted droppings to be eaten to reinvigorate them (but he couldn’t bear to do more than lick it at the time). Then he would piss into a milk container to drink the leader after losing her in his stream. Everything morphed from there.

At one point, he had concluded that his extremities were compromised, countered by seizures where his hands methodically swept his body and furniture clear of unrest and away to the floor. This proved impossible as every time he would get close to cleaning the room of haunt, he would bump into something that hadn’t been cleared. So he was actually grateful to be in a room where he only had to worry about the walls and the grate in the middle of the floor, which seemed everywhere with his eyes shut.

They could hack into what you hear, so Justin would bang his ears to “reset.” They could see what he sees, so he kept his eyes shut. They could track his movements, so he would spin around the room randomly, blindly, and fall to the ground frozen. If he touched a wall, he could be tracked and would have to randomize his movements all over again, which happened more often than not as they were still in control of where he would go.

All the seals in his body, eyes, mouth, nose, anus, ears, urethral orifice, would need to be wet-sealed by saliva to prevent invasion by the mind readers. He did this while spinning around the room looking like a fool, banging the top of his head to feel an electrical break and flash of light behind his closed eyes. And every time he succeeded in this mess, a guard would walk by within seconds, look in, and his position was again compromised; and the one time he got it right, he lost the only ones he wanted to retain. This all caused him to lose willpower to be free of possession; but he kept trying to hide his orifices anyway.

He was standing up where he knew he was possessed, and stood in the corner in fear of being seen from behind, where they couldn’t see through his eyes; or where they couldn’t see his butt crack to control his bowel movements until the next reset (which could be as easy as jumping once or twice in the air in a crowd, but while trapped was much more difficult). If they saw his penis, they could control what came out of his bladder. Justin recalled the first photo the police took after booking, naked with his legs spread and hands open against the wall.

When he was fed, he felt each bite represented the sounds he heard around him, piling and stacking his body with evil that would have to be expunged. Every piece of feces represented the passing of these mind readers, good or bad, through him. Numbers were assigned by the words from the television to the amount of feces required to expatriate a mistake he made touching an uncleared object. He would save the good poop, drink the good urine, or be scared to even smell it, and lament when he heard a simple tap which compromised the purity of salvaging those good mind readers in shit. He would hold in his urine for so long that he ended up wetting himself, scared to even attempt the walk to the toilet, and out of fear that he would lose the smell of the good aliens, or peed everywhere to separate the aliens who I would be licking up. Jim Carrey mocked it in a movie.

Still in that padded empty isolation cell, he saw a piece of poop pressed against the wall. He grabbed it and put it in his rear end. Immediately, a lunchroom of new voices were in his head boasting about being so old school. There was a scary witch as well. Justin reached quickly into his ass to pull it out, as it raced backwards up his colon. He finally got it and pulled it out, but the witch was still there. He tried to pee and lick up the helpful aliens to fight the witch, but she made him spray everywhere randomly. He stood up without pressing out the bad, totally in shock and just stood there. His back began to bend sideways, unable to stand upright. People would come by to watch, and he ran over to the corner of the room next to the window to be hidden. He looked up in the corner of the room where he had barricaded himself and saw an image of a noose scratched in the wall above him; overhearing the television program playing was a 1960’s western, where the main character said, “I got to go stop a hanging.”

He was lying on the floor, eyes had been closed for over a dozen hours, and he experienced a hallucination like a chalk drawing on a chalkboard. It was a silhouette of a city, with bright white dots falling from the sky down to the city, illuminating it. Just then, six horseback riders grabbed the light and galloped away laughing. It was terrifying because it seemed like a portrayal of the days before.

There were a few different kinds of aliens he discovered while in the safety cell. Some were milk based aliens and others water based, and rarely was water allowed in there. Only certain aliens could survive at high temperatures in his food, so he’d eat everything right away; but in the naked cell, there were only a cold sandwich (slice of mystery meat between two slices of white bread)–with a slice of american cheese between that and sometimes a cookie, and a pint of milk and an orange once every twelve hours. The orange fruit would be dripped into his eyes to clear all but the strong watchers, and the peelings were used to clean his hands before meals. Coffee was determined to be a clean wipe, but commissary was unavailable there. Only a few could survive spicy food, and a few could handle sugar; both of which were in high demand. Cookies represented the female aliens, and he would wait to eat them until they were soggy wet for maximum strength microorganism transfer to his body. Mustard, Ketchup; each killed off certain microorganisms, and he would save them up for after meals, but before the cookie. One inmate asked in a rare instance where Justin ate in the cafeteria with a group, why he decided to sit next to him. As Justin was not talkative, he didn’t say that he was led there by an invisible force. The man asked him for his mustard, and Justin squeezed the whole package into his own mouth. “Oh I see how it is,” the inmate argued. Not likely.

I helped make dinner one time for 50 people, and when I ran out of the vegetarian dish, I made more by using chicken stock and didn’t tell anybody.

Some intelligent bacteria would be vanquished with soap and others not; it wasn’t available in the safety cell. Some even pretended to be the pimples and eye goobers on his body, so whenever he touched his eye, they would disappear, and whenever he would pick at a zit, they would cry pain and disappear. It wasn’t true, but they let him believe it in order to feign a choice. One would gain strength when Justin would breathe, the other when he would hold his breath. Inmates of one alien decendency would be brought into the adjacent cell, in much agony, and Justin would determine which kind they were. After a few minutes of holding his breath in just the right amount, they would calm down around him and be quickly let out of their cell. Their power was based on a putrid smell, but he got used to it coming from the grate in the middle of the room. The aliens who thrived off of breath had a limit, where if Justin breathed too frequently, they went from appreciative to complacent to drunk with power. They were identified by a sweet smell, gathered by air passing over metal. He would blow on metal and it would return this smell, which strengthened that type. He would spin around on the floor, supposedly gaining strength by ionizing his breath before blowing on the metal, generated by gathering electrical forces and placing them on a surface. The aliens rewarded him with the ability to straighten out a lean, and oppose gravity. Another kind controlled food as it was nearing his stomach. Depending on how he breathed, he would sustain that alien midway between his mouth and stomach to do its job, which was to allow him to eat anything without poisoning. He would repeat these rituals in tunnel vision to discover these enhancements. “Sir!” one guard yelled, as Justin sat on the floor focusing with his eyes shut. No doubt they were frightened of what had become of their friend, the walk man (earworm).

When aliens would switch shifts watching everything that happened, apparently invisibly or through the eyes of insects and humans, they would kiss each other to equalize their memory in the saliva, allowing an alien on a new watch to know everything that happened before their shift.

He was meditating and nearing the ability to stand up free of evil spirits, when doctors, nurses, and guards rushed into the naked solitary no toilet cell to take him away. “In the name of [all that is holy], you will not touch me!” They left him for another several hours; guards rushed back and forth in what sounded like a prisonbreak, and then a woman whose voice would become so familiar said, “do you want to put on some clothes?” Justin stayed pressed up against the corner ignoring her fake generosity. They got to see his privates anyway when they then moved him to the isolation cell across the hall; putting another person in the first cell, then called that guy Sandburg so he would talk to them, commenting on the blood he smeared off his nose on the walls and scratches on the floor, and quickly letting him out. Justin stayed silent across the hall, and continued meditating and telepathically communicating with groups of people at various stages of development. To ensure their advice was properly understood and acceptable, Justin implemented a three check system, called “triple C” to verify total bilateral agreement. One guy wanted out of Justin’s body, and so he swept him down to his foot, and picked a scab that had formed from kneeling on the ground for so long. As he did, he saw a blur of light through the darkness of his closed eyes, come out from the scab; and heard the man giddy with freedom. After another two days, an unprejudiced force with a New York City accent had control over the guards and the naked prisoner was ready to be let out. They were represented, not surprisingly, by apples and apple cobbler. Their main alien was best seated at the pyloric sphincter–also a stopgap for poison.

When they had let him out of the naked cell, they weighed him. He had lost 60-pounds of lean muscle in two months being denied exercise, denied meals, denied access to water for days at a time, and eating everything including dust, from 225# and athletic, to 167# and desperate for hydration. In fairness, two weight measurements allegedly taken upon entry showed 188, and 196 on the same day, not 230–marking 21-29 pounds lost in 60 days. And although he had been walking non-stop for a couple days, those weights hadn’t been reached since high school a dozen years earlier. They wanted to check his blood pressure and Justin yelled at the nurse, “I’m not doing anything until I get some water!”

Around early 2008, I met a bartender and we got along well right away. One day, she showed up at my apartment unannounced and we hung out; but I had to go to work the next day. I was late as usual and she kept asking for things as I was trying to get ready. “You want the water?!” I protested. She wasn’t confined to a jail cell but it was still rude to yell at her.

He was moved to another solitary cell, what they call Administrative Segregation (or “lock-down”), as opposed to safety cell–where clothes are contraband; and had gotten used to not being allowed to leave it. He feared being touched, and general population was not safe. The new female guard gave him 3 meals a day, and many times even pop tarts on top of breakfast, one of the many kind aliens. A month later, they checked on him and brought him to the psychiatrist. while waiting, a guard revealed concocted reports accusing Justin of “master baiting.” He refused to talk to the shrink. He got annoyed and lifted up his toga to expose his penis, because he thought that was the only thing these people cared about. They moved him to an upstairs cell where 25 or so inmates shared a common space. He spent two weeks there, learning more and meditating more; then one day, they opened the door to the common area. Justin slammed it shut out of fear of the other inmates who had been whispering ideas of stealing his soul. The next day at common time, the door opened, and Justin walked down the stairs. As he did, a man on the the television warned, “do not to go back upstairs or you won’t come back down alive.” Justin saw a trash can and dove head first into it. Guards moved him to another isolation cell, wrenching on his handcuffs to cause phalanges numbing for months.

When playing tug with dogs, I would pull too hard and overpower them to show dominance, possibly hurting them.

His fingernails and toenails became brittle and one damaged as a child fell off entirely. His resting heart rate doubled. These are indicators of anemia and mineral deficiency. Jailhouse medical staff told him he was in the average range and returned him to his cell. This twisted game consumed Justin in torment, while those around him were enticed with enhancements and infallibility. On rare occasions, Justin was treated to those enhancements. He was being escorted from court to his cell, eyes wide shut, and he could feel neurons firing in parts of his head as a warning, and he would pull the guard–who kindly suggested that if he was to have his eyes closed, than he would have to trust them. Before that, the guards would intentionally walk him into tables. His father visited him again, and they dragged Justin to the video room. He kept his eyes tightly shut as the guard touched his penis to Justin’s arm as soon as he sat down. the handcuffed prisoner reacted by elbowing the guy in the groin, and began methodically wiping his body clean and keeping his mouth tightly shut. The visitor wailed, “why are you doing this to me?!”

He had a cellmate at the time, who was concerned about his behavior. He called in the guards, and Justin went limp. They picked up his hand and dropped it. His elbow rotated it and his hand landed on his chest. “It was supposed to hit you in the face,” and they walked out. For one reason or another, he was lying in the top bunk and his breathing stopped forcefully. He was a shallow breather anyway and it didn’t last long, but later a guard would walk by and pleaded to the other as if doing everything he could to freak Justin out, “I choked him.” Respiration control would be a valuable lesson later on as an distinct militaristic advantage.

I have choked a dog by dragging it home with its front paws in the air after I caught it running away on my way to work.

They wanted him to trust fall with his eyes closed. Sandburg could only bear to lean in. One time, he was seized from the top bunk, and he allowed himself to roll off the bed blind. He didn’t fall off. Instead, his leg happened to be positioned perfectly for his knee to wedge between the bed and the desk, completely uninjured. His cell mate freaked out and grabbed him and threw him to the ground, where Justin pissed himself to ionize the area around him. He vibrated his hand to throw ionization to the cellmate’s bed frame in order to suck bad energy away from him. At another time, he was let out into the common area, and his arm was seized as he wandered around the lunchroom according to their direction, and went straight for another inmate who he didn’t know, waving his arm like Arsenio hall. The frightened inmate began punching at Justin who blocked his throws. Another time, he was wandering around according to the alien’s wishes, and saw a guard who had yelled into the air every time he unsealed his food container to force her way into his digestion. He turned and faced her, vibrating his hand to get rid of her. She slapped it when he got close. Justin would meditate in his room, listening to every sound, and when a sound coincided with an affront on his movements or mind, he would associate that sound, waving his arm in judgement to get rid of the infectious personalities purposefully put in the rooms next to him. He would allow the aliens to move his arm around, following guards blindly through many walls and floors throughout the building the same way to point out the dangers.

Alien intelligence got more sophisticated. Part of what he was led to believe was that each room he was moved into was a crime scene in itself. Disease was rampant in jail, and he was on the hunt for the cause as the bad aliens were on a mission to put him in infectious zones, while they tried to convince everybody that he brought the disease with him. After long periods of deep focus, rolling around on the ground according to very slow applied forces, a seizure would begin at that spot. Only then would he realize he was right next to a toilet or something else, as his hand would be put into the bowl to wipe the fungus and infect himself in a controlled way. His hand would then mix it with the thing being investigated, which would leave a spectral trail only they could follow, sometimes concocting cures and other times only to evidence that Justin was free of the disease prior to entering that cell. He would leave the chemical results before and after infecting himself by wiping the mixing and untarnished fingers in conspicuous places, like a flower pattern at the call box or a large dot on the wall next to the toilet. Any investigating alien who followed Justin in those cells would solve the case by this spectral artwork. He would become infected sooner or later, and it was important to the good aliens to facilitate it scientifically; and the human petri dish understood the sacrifice was worth the malady. His eyes remained closed.

He lay on the floor pressed up against the door to hide his private parts and body position from the window, sometimes being manipulated through meditation, where he began to develop a more robust system to define the many ways he could be touched and by whom. Saliva would accumulate in his mouth at every decision, waiting to be swallowed at the conclusion of the ritual. Guards came to the door and opened it. “Now’s your chance,” the aggressive woman said; and Justin leaped into the doorway. They slammed it shut on him and pressed him back inside.

Another interesting thing was when people would sweep outside, voices would come from the sounds. When water would fall, voices would come from it. When air would blow, voices would come from the wind bouncing off his ear lobe. He would cover himself in a blanket so that nobody could see the position of his body and hack into him. The blanket would have a mind of its own, riding up or down opposite to or exactly according to Justin’s wishes. He would keep his mouth locked shut, even to himself, except to eat, to purify the words he planned on saying at trial. He would wait for silence to eat, and as soon as he opened his mouth, the sixth guard he met would yell to infect his saliva. When he slept, his lips were moved open on three occasions to drool on the blanket and he was quickly moved to a new cell so the vampires could have access to it. He was remarkably let out into the day room alone for a half hour one day, and spent it with one eye crossed walking around in circles to test his perimeter. Other inmates asked questions to hand one article to another in the adjacent cell. He was concerned about touching an infected, but decided since guards were notorious for saying, “not right now,” at every question asked of them, he would take the time to sweep himself off afterwards. He brought a piece of paper from one cell to another, sliding it under the door. As he did, he spoke to the prisoners in a different accent at each transfer, completely out of his own control. As he realized his right eye was compromised, he closed his left tightly and stared into the mirror, “Damn you to hell,” he would repeat. Once he realized his left eye was also corrupted, he closed his right and damned the left to hell. He was now a sitting duck.

Spit was broken down into the good and the bad, where the good was a smooth phlegm that followed Justin’s instruction, and the bad, which was a phlegm filled with bubbles that would do the opposite, holding itself down his throat when he would try to expel it and racing around against his wishes. Those who could understand and cope with the difficulty of the laser beams, would realize that the good phlegm would follow hand gestures; but it’s most notable power was the ability to throw a touch. The aliens around him would try to suck that power for themselves by touching his special fingers with their thumb. Justin would be guided around brushing parts of his body with his hands, sometimes touching his own finger with his thumb, and the laser power would be temporarily transferred to the next thing the thumb touched. It was very difficult to follow for everybody who would end up sucking at the wrong finger–thereby protecting Justin’s gift. The time was affectionately referred to as “the gun show.”

Urine was broken down into the good aliens, a cool, smooth, tight stream; and the bad aliens, hot and spraying everywhere. Farts were broken down into the good, cool, with a pleasant smell; and a hot, putrid smell represented the bad. Based on the position of them inside his bladder and bowels, he could get rid of the bad and hold on to the good. Since they could reverse peristalsis and swim upstream, Justin would try to trick them by holding his head below his waist when they wanted to go back up, and holding his head high when they wanted to go down. He kept his eyes tightly shut so they couldn’t see where the floor was. He developed a lasting habit to force himself to smell his own sweat to remind the aliens in his stomach of his identity, and when he did, he was informed that the wicked witch had copied every attempt at his identity, to the point that she had control over every smell of fart and her urine stream looked just like the best of them.

One time he sat up in bed and his legs felt as heavy as a truck. Another time he was thrown against a sink by an invisible force, and he was made to keep his hands clenched so he wouldn’t appoint power to anyone who might use it for indecent purposes. Also, certain fingers were like laser beams and so were his eyes, so he had to make sure the beams didn’t flinch and give away his position. He would lie down so they were parallel so that he couldn’t be found along a line; notably an advanced secret militaristic technique at hiding from the aliens. Everything he heard was broken into two separate paragraphs, depending on whether he was breathing in or out at the time, and if he swallowed, it would switch to a new paragraph. If he was visited by the good powerful aliens, they would take over his breathing at critical times to ensure positive paragraphs. Most didn’t have the authority. Decades old movies would comment on or change topics at every movement as if they knew; and then it would start all over again. Justin would write long sequences of these stories and try to remember them for when commercials would come on television selling each from their phone number. Justin would breathe erratically during the phone number to make himself more difficult to be sold. He would scratch at the bed to allow some of the most powerful aliens to bounce his finger in morse code to fully ensure something that could not be replicated, and even still, when the guards would come by to inspect the situation, Justin wouldn’t move a muscle until a guard said his name to complete the sequence with him attached to it.

I made a teenager cry while teaching her how to drive stick, by beginning our lesson on an up-slope.

As he breathed and listened; every word he heard from the inmates, the guards, and the television affirmed these thoughts as reality; and some were thoroughly amused–yet they were all very serious about their powers being understood and a human law laid down that everyone would be ok with. Good and bad both used equivocation in their language, some to make seemingly innocuous phrases take on soul capturing meaning. “Take it easy,” now meant that the person wanted control over you. What came out of your own mouth was even suspect as to its source. Every rule he could come up with to hinder their infiltration was quickly accepted and abused, only restricting Justin himself. He coped on a daily basis for many months meditating in a static and clenched position in order to shut out the bad and tune in to permissive quality-enhanced senses and symptoms of thought broadcasting and ideas of reference(earworm) visiting him.

It got worse, when he would look at somebody, another sequence was added. The first person he looked at would be a “leader” or raised one power level. The second person he saw, be it after the television changed camera angles or if Justin blinked, would be a “friend” or “safe.” The third person or view would be lowered one power level, and the fourth was a “social.” People would build up and lose power as Justin lie stuck in an uncomfortable position, or he would carry a sequence by slowly moving toward the window that showed the television–or leap there depending on how things were going. It would get more confusing as he would only look with one eye, or only see one eye of the person gaining or losing power. The only way to avoid bondage in this game was not to move a muscle and not to breath. This all just so the warring factions around him on his side would have a fighting chance at their freedom of thought. With such courage only comparable to doctors seen to the public in the Ebola crisis; guards would come and go based on what they touched, racing around trying to get to Justin in the most significant struggle ever concocted, reversed by a simple look in the eye of an evil tenant, or answering a question at just the wrong time in Justin’s blinking regiment to reduce just enough power to be overtaken. Scared to blink, scared to look anyone in the eye; at his first opportunity, he bought reading glasses as a technicality to protect his eyes and that of the people he observed or observed his naked body. He felt so scared and out of control by the end, he would wait three full years before telling a word of it.

Treatment was several weeks per game as the psychosis intensified, sounds filling all of every single day in his motionlessness, with one to two main seizures per month lasting about two hours each, or more depending on how long he was frozen before it started. When he would move around, he would do so by making triangles with his feet to always keep connected to the ground and not break up the “book” between frozen positions–hoping to get his wristband scanned to ensure he was attached to the book–especially if it contained a seizure; but they would scan every inmate but him. So he would walk in triangles back to the bed and continue until somebody said his name. He looked forward to the seizures and used these methods in long road to uniqueness to try to prepare for suitable seizure conditions (like a secure phone connection), for the opportunity to lay out a better coming month through the meditation. There had to be introduced a better method for determining how the aliens would be able to live among us and to sort themselves. Unseen inmates would put sandwiches and books under Justin’s door, knowing him.How many people remember that the prisoner was arrested on a firearm misdemeanor? Cause it was the last thing on Justin’s mind.


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