Orgonomicon

ORGONOMICON

copyright 2016 Boris D. Schleinkofer

Smashwords Edition

ISBN 9781370771417

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Cover image and author photo created by Boris D.
Schleinkofer, with assistance from https://deepart.io

This book, like all the others, was always
for Mary.

Well, you know I have a love, a love for everyone I
know

And you know I have a drive to live—I won't let
go

But can you see its opposition comes arising up
sometimes

That its dreadful anteposition comes blacking in my
mind

And then I see a darkness

And then I see a darkness

And then I see a darkness

And then I see a darkness

Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - I See a Darkness

CONTENTS

0: A Clockworks Butterfly

1: Appendix

About the Author

Chapter Zero:
A Clockworks Butterfly

The movement had no single point of origin, and
neither did it originate in motion.

A strand reached across a vast, expansionless
deep-purple nothingness and pulled there upon itself, a rippling
assemblage of the microcosmic point big-banging andbecoming the
universe; light and dark exchanged ascendencies, and then again,
and again.

With an upheaval of magnetic lightning, an
infinitesimal number of one-dimensional gestures changed their
orientation in unison, and joined their resonance to a greater
vibration singing itself through cracks in the gridding void and
into boundless existence.

The movement so began itself.

"I am a complete and utter failure." It was
Scott's newest and oldest mantra.

He was on the street—
again
—with no
idea of what to do or where to go, with a single suitcase full of
whatever she'd thrown at him and a backpack stuffed with his dirty
work-shirts. Things looked miserable; he was miserable. The
screaming—fifteen years of it—still rang in his ears, her tones
harsh and strident, stunning him with their awful truths. She was
right to say it to him, he
was
a complete and utter failure,
and now he was out walking around without any shoes in the middle
of the night with nowhere to sleep,
again
. He was almost
starting to get used to it.

He'd begged her not to throw him out and
she'd screamed something unintelligible and grabbed up the heavy
cast-iron frying pan; when she was this hot under the collar, he
knew that he had to get away from her immediately or suffer
violence. He went out to the back yard, grabbing up the telephone
and bringing it clenched in his shaking hand. He'd begun carrying
his keys at all times; you never knew when you'd be unexpectedly
taking to the road. He knew this time was different, though, much
more final. She'd been working herself up to something for a while,
bottling up and pressurizing an inner disaster that could no longer
wait to destroy everything in its path. The thing he'd been staving
off for years had finally come crashing home, the tornado touched
down.

It wasn't just that she'd thrown him out of
their dismal apartment, threatening to call the police if he didn't
move fast enough—what exactly had he done?—or that she kicked his
ass verbally every other day, or even that she'd gotten pregnant by
another man. Any one of those things would have been enough to
drive any sane man far, far away from her long ago. He didn't know
at all why he'd stayed with her for as long as he had, why he'd
dedicated so much of his life to trying to make an unappeasable
woman happy. The worst thing about it was when she said that he
didn't love her. Couldn't she see how hard he was trying?

He was so, so thirsty.

Scott left the apartment building in his bare
feet, walked the streets with his eyes unfocused and pointed at a
spot three feet on the ground ahead of him, a tunnel-vision of his
afterlife and how the world was ending.
His
world, anyway;
he was pretty sure she intended to go on without him under the
pretense that everything would be just fine... and the rest of the
world wouldn't care. Maybe it was fifteen years of hell, but it was
his
hell, it was what he knew and what he'd created and what
owned him, what he'd been destined by Higher Powers to endure. He
probably deserved it. He didn't know anything else, and he didn't
understand it at all.

He'd had a job to do. She was his soul-mate.
The stars had pre-destined it. The old gypsy was right. It was all
life would allow. Whatever. No matter how he searched his mind, the
end made no more sense than the beginning, and was strikingly more
dream-like and surreal than all the time in between.

The last time he'd looked at her, actually
seen
her, he realized that he no longer recognized the woman
beside him, her countenance and mannerisms totally unfamiliar to
him. He'd been aware of strange adjustments in her personality over
the past years they'd been together, witnessed the slow slide into
depravity she'd taken and knew it couldn't be going anywhere good,
but he hadn't allowed himself to imagine it going this bad or
ending like this. That was how hell happened: things got worse, all
the time, and never got any better, and then that was it.

"Do you love her?" The voice, unbidden, came
from within his own head.

This was a bad sign. He
had
to get
away from everything, quickly, before it all became too much and he
lost his shit altogether. People like him didn't last long once the
carpet was pulled out from under. One fall and you didn't get back
up; there was nothing else to stand on.

Jaime pulled his bike out of the street,
gathered up his schoolbooks and moved to the sidewalk. He could
feel that his knee was scraped up and he had a gash on the palm of
his left hand, but it could have been worse. His bike was okay, and
at least he hadn't torn his clothes.

Growing up poor was about learning how things
fell to the bottom. He always ended up with his older brothers'
hand-me-downs, and they were already half torn to rags by the time
they made it down to him, but his mother would stitch everything
with big ugly patches and insist that he wear them. Fixing patches
was one of her pet peeves. He couldn't help but to put them to
their paces, and then she would get mad at him. She got mad at him
about a lot of stuff, not much of it really having anything to do
with him.

His father was pretty much the same. Neither
of them really counted as people, not in his world.

He tried to wipe the blood off his hand onto
the grass next to the sidewalk, careful lest he get any on his
clothes, daring the people in passing cars to judge him for
falling. It was embarrassing. He didn't even know what had caused
it.

He sat down and rolled up his pant leg; the
knee was bruised and he had a pretty good rugburn. He rubbed at the
hurt, willing it to get better so he could go on and get himself to
school. He couldn't see anybody actually looking at him, but he
still had the feeling of being watched. After a moment, a white van
with two men in it drove past him slowly, and the man with the
thick glasses riding in the passenger seat had a camera pointed at
him. The van sped away and Jaime watched it go, the feeling of
being watched slowly being replaced with a deeper disquiet. The van
stopped at the intersection and then turned the corner.

At the end of the street, some men were
fixing a flagpole; at least, it looked like a flagpole, but they'd
taken out a section of its sheath around the middle, and underneath
there were wires and paneling and other strange gizmos. It had to
be just another phone-tower, like all the others everywhere. You
didn't really notice them.

He picked himself up and walked the bike the
rest of the way.

He'd gone to school, dodged the bullies and
teachers, and managed to get back out again without incident; home
was as adversarial as school, with his three brothers who beat him
up and his parents who didn't pay any attention to him unless he
was being punished. He didn't feel wanted anywhere, and the only
place he could be safe and relax was the library. He knew it was
where the nerds were supposed to hang out, and he supposed he fit
the description and didn't care. He could lose himself in books
because books didn't care if he didn't fit in anywhere else.

All his life, he'd had a spark about him, a
life to him that others didn't have, that he had no idea what to do
with and that kept him apart from the rest of the world. He wasn't
the smartest, or the strongest or the best-looking; there was no
heavenly chorus that followed him around and told everybody that he
was different, but there was a light to his eyes, and a glow that
came from within that he fought to kept hidden so that the others
wouldn't hate him as they did, and he spent his days in isolation
immersed in his imagination.

Nighttime, at home with the group of familiar
strangers ignoring each other, was reserved for TV, anything that
could take him out of himself, away from where he was. TV was
usually good like that.

His mother had yelled at him, saying there
was probably too much salt in the chicken-and-dumplings and it was
his fault because she was distracted worrying about why he was so
late coming home. It was his fault. She hadn't been paying
attention and it was his fault.

The family had gathered in the living room
and taken up their places around the couch, waiting for their
favorite show, "Glitterati," to begin. It was something he didn't
understand—not that he didn't understand the subject material, most
of it was pretty stupid stuff that even a kid like him had no hard
time getting his head around—he couldn't figure out what his family
had for the show. It was a pretty average soap opera with just
enough humor mixed in to call it a sitcom; it wasn't very funny but
everyone acted like they liked it, so he tried laughing along with
them to fit in, even though he felt like a phoney the whole time.
He really didn't get it.