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Back You are here: Home Themed Collections The Collective Speaks LA1K eBook Celebration The Fall: The Truth About the Mortal Dangers of “Old Glory”*
Tuesday, 06 March 2012 04:59

The Fall: The Truth About the Mortal Dangers of “Old Glory”*

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*Transcribed word-for-word from the back of a discarded leaflet, a set of handwritten photocopied instructions titled “Your Personal Apocalypse”, found twisting among a storm of dust and sand on the Venice Boardwalk.

 

This public announcement is being issued by The United States of America Government  to serve as a WARNING on the DANGERS OF “OLD GLORY”, the latest trend in mind-altering narcotics. The HIGHLY TOXIC drug is taken by receiving a tattoo loaded with the POISONOUS INK. The shop in which authorities have sourced the drug’s origin to, Old Glory Tattoos and Barbershop, in Venice Beach, California, has been closed down. The owners, the men and women believed to be responsible for the drug’s integration into society, have been brought to justice, but we’re still seeing VICTIMS OF “OLD GLORY”, no longer just in the area of L.A but stretching TO AUSTRALIA and EUROPE.

 

If you have ANY INFORMATION on “Old Glory” tattoo SHOPS or MANUFACTURERS, please call 1-800-CRIMESTOPPERS. Your ASSISTANCE in quashing this TERRIFYING drug is VITAL. 

 

* * *

 

Please, whoever finds this, if there is anyone out there I haven’t yet murdered, I need help. I need some fucking help.

While there’s still blood in my veins I am poison. Soaked in it.

I’ve lost all sense of self. Old Glory took me and now I’m nothing, suspended in nothing. So lost I can’t recall my own name. I followed the instructions. To the tee. Even looked for the yellow brick road when it got bad but saw nothing but dirt and grime and death—so much fucking death. Somehow I lost grip on it all. It slipped from me as though I was made of water.

Time has withered, crumbled like wet particleboard. It could be weeks since I was needled with Old Glory. But it could just as easily be hours, minutes. The tattoo has scabbed and dried and flaked and healed so it’s gotta be two weeks, three maybe.

I’ve taken shelter under a bench. Hiding from myself, from my own heinous thoughts. Too scared to look away from this piece of paper. Too scared to simply close my eyes, for when I do, I see nothing but destruction. It was beautiful at first, incomprehensibly. Not that anything was all too different. It just shined. It swelled. But it settles, the tingling. It dances you into a false sense of security. An evil waltz. It twists around your soul in such a way it almost feels like it’s let go but really it’s holding you so tight you’re numb. That’s when the real damage happens. The fall. Your imagination is at breaking point. You’ve thought up all that you can think up. Climbed as far as you will. And with every great rise there’s an equally steep fall. Your subconscious takes over and they don’t tell you this but that’s what drives this thing in the end. Your subconscious. And when relying on thoughts you have no control over to create a world it becomes unstable, volatile. Everything shifts, bends. I looked at buildings and they’d crumble before I’d realised I thought about not liking the colour of it. I looked at people and their faces would collapse before I realised I’d thought their nose was too big. My judgmental mind destroyed everything in its path and soon the beautiful pulsing world around me was dilapidated and lifeless.

I’d heard the stories. Knew what I was getting myself into, sure. But I figured it was like acid or DMT or whatever. All rumours, Chinese whispers. I’d heard about people getting stuck. Prisoners of their own minds. They aren’t architects, the leaflet says. This isn’t architecture—it’s God’s work. If there is a God, they put in the hard yards and deserve all the fucking praise they get.

Thinking back to the streets of L.A, Old Glory explains the hoards of bums and weirdos. Hundreds, maybe thousands, scattering the streets of Venice. They got trapped. I’m with them now, somewhere in the ether. Gone, a single particle among a dust storm of fucked up.

The worst part is knowing there’s nothing you can do for me, nothing anyone can do for me. I can’t be saved. And now I will finally give in to the poison in my heart. If I can bring on the apocalypse with a single fleeting thought, I can, with enough focus, fix this, fix everything.

 

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Last modified on Saturday, 17 March 2012 00:35
Doc O'Donnell

Doc is the deadbeat responsible for www.dirtynoir.com. His work has filthied the pages and screens of a few other dives: Crime Factory, Warmed and Bound: A Velvet Anthology and a bunch of Thunderdome issues. He can be abused for his many misgivings at www.docodonnell.com. Dare you to drop him a "Fuckyou".

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