MOST FUCKED-UP PERSON ALIVE
The Autobiography of Being Pissed Off
I was born to hijack space shuttles and blackmail
cities and start world neurologic wars. And be kicked
out of rooms and institutions and off planets and out
of solar systems.
I was born to be the kind of person that intercepts a
satellite feed and superimposes flashing titles like
"Child Molester," "Mass Murderer," or "Dickhead," over
its images of celebrities and world leaders.
And I was even born to be elected President of the
Cosmos -- on a platform of "Fuck the Economy! Fuck
the People! Fuck the Police!"
Or else, I wasn't born this way at all, and something
must have happened in life itself, to make it this
I was born around Big Midnight in a CanaMexican motel
where the owners and maids were all so busy either
drying out or scoring, that they couldn't be bothered
with checking people in or cleaning the rooms.
My parents had met at a school or a spa, where young
ladies were taught to be proper alcoholics.
They lived on Zero Street, home of coffee, toothpaste
and vodka -- all at once.
After graduating, they stayed together for a while
and, instead of life, decided to have the fucked-up
offspring: ---- > me.
My paternal mother belonged to the Benign Fascist
Labor Party, and my maternal mother ran a chain of
simulation shops that only really existed in the kind
of rumor that never got past Mouth One.
Though I grew up with no control over my own hopeless
life, I could sometimes force events in the real
world -- earthquakes and fatal illnesses, corporate
bankruptcies and stock market crashes, drug czar
resignation scandals and mountain road auto accidents,
to name just a few. Most, without even being there.
Some, without even trying.
I was born in a Sony 797, one day, and my first
birthmemory was the sight of the pilot, co-pilot, and
crew, out the window, parachuting by.
My parents had wanted me to grow up to be one of those
people who, by sheer strength of personality, can
convince 12 or 15 members of an audience to jam
themselves into a small, tight, transparent, glass
booth, made to hold about 6 adults max, and then lock
the door on them and take two ordinary house cats and
hold them out for the rest of the audience to see what
sweet gentle little kitties they are, then shoot them
both up with a long thick syringe of concentrated PCP
and drop them into the glass booth and clamp down the
lid so there's no exit.
Then join the audience in watching, as the little
kitties tense up and gracefully purée the volunteers,
with a driving, insect-chainsaw sound.
Of course, I didn't grow up to become one of
these people and, instead, enrolled full-time at
Find-the-Salami University, with a major in
cable/phone/software consciousness, and a minor
in how even kamekazis get abused. My advisor
was Professor Our.
Things went OK there, for a while, but eventually,
sophomore year, I just lost it one day, in between
classes, and headed out for the airport and hijacked
a plane that was sitting on the runway,
stuffed with passengers, waiting to take off.
Soon, the police came and deployed their snipers and
sharpshooters, and through the glass of their
makeshift command center, I could see the contract
psycho-therapists they'd hired, madly scanning disks
of clip-text, for the perfect line or word to use to
talk me out of it.
I got on the radio and tried to be straight with them,
at first, making only the simplest emotional demands.
The police negotiator, Captain Our, listened politely
to my list, and then, when I was done, just said, "I'm
sorry, but those all seem to violate some fundamental
law of physics or other, and can, therefore, simply
not be met in this universe, at this time. Even if we
I got so pissed at that, I started demanding
everything I could think of, whether I cared about it
or not -- then, got so guilty, I only asked for
softball items, just to let the cops have, at least,
"How about more drugs," I said, into the headset I'd
taken off the dead pilot. "Lots more drugs -- if it's
not too much trouble. And while you're at it, let's
have more colors and deeper darknesses and richer
histories and more intelligent timbres and new hi-res
emotions from formerly restricted top-secret
government databases, with real-time-interactive
When that didn't work, I demanded more streets and
more cities and more nations and continents and more
moons and more space junk. And more words and more
subtle explosives and more alphabets and languages and
more new categories of self-sacrifice and
self-destruction. I was all hyped up. Nothing was
enough. Everything bored the piss out of me.
Thermonuclear war between Earth and Venus. Mass
suicide of entire populations by wall outlet
electrocution in bathtub. Golden anal sex with the
world. Zarathustra blowjob.
"There has to be more action," I screamed at Captain
Our over the hotline between us. "Constant action.
Somebody has to get shot or save somebody's life on
every street corner, every minute. And every kickoff
has to be run back 110 yards for a touchdown, and
every basket has to be made from the stands at the
opposite end of the court, and every pitch has to be a
hit batter who dies on the spot, so both dugouts pour
out, and the two teams kill each other, as well as the
umpires and fans -- leaving nobody alive.
"Every sound has to be an earthquake or tidal wave
that topples governments and changes national
boundaries and mutates whole species so they suddenly
drift off the planet, across galaxies, only to return,
years later, when nobody wants to know them cause
their credit rating's bad or because they can't do the
"More violence, more cataclysms, more adventure, more
car crashes at stoplights and intersections. More
meteors and satellites and re-entry pods and debris
dropping out of the sky, carrying cryptic filthy
messages on slim-line videodiscs hidden under a false
layer of paint.
"Hundreds of new world leaders installed every day to
replace hundreds of old ones ousted by obscene
scandals or by lazy 1-man revolutions. 4 new wars
starting every day to replace 3 old ones ending. 7
celebrities born each day, replacing 5 murdered, 4
married, 7 dead by natural causes. 9 new songs on the
charts every hour, displacing 8 old ones off. 10 new
shows launched each day, replacing 11 old ones
cancelled after only a week.
"More mid-air collisions and high-altitude rescues and
trainwrecks and nuclear disasters and droughts and
bridge collapses and biologic blackmail and accidental
missiles dumped from trainer aircraft.
"When I walk down the street and only 3 or 4 shots are
fired at me, I find it hard to stay awake."
I was born in a squadron of intelligent, unmanned,
stealth glider-bombers that cruised the earth
forever. On-board neuro-digital, idiot-precognitive
systems, networked throughout the formation, predicted
the weather on a moment-by-moment basis, all over the
world, and kept the gliders aloft by using today's
best air currents to get to tomorrow's.
Thousands of these squadrons decorated the skies over
thousands of different cities at once, giving
populations their final taste of awe -- and the
supreme consolation prize for having put up so well
with the complex bullshit of being.
When I was old enough, and ground-based expert systems
indicated that the planet was ready for me, I crawled
into the co-pilot's seat and pulled the eject lever,
as I'd been trained to do on TV airplane school.
Instantly, a precise dance of explosive bolts rocketed
the seat and me into space. My chute deployed, and
below, all life lay spread open before me -- like a
When I landed, there was already a job waiting for me
at Company Zero -- a really pissed-off,
multi-disciplinary, multi-modal, multi-tasking,
multi-sexual, underground, pirate, gypsy, hegemonic,
corporate behemoth, that spanned the globe but
couldn't be found when someone wanted to arrest its
president or make it stop.
It didn't have a comm number or a street address or an
ether name. It didn't have a Tax/Security ID or
encrypted password logo.
I was hired to be one of the many bogus employees of
Company Zero, whose only task was to circulate
endlessly through the bars and restaurants of a town
or city, to give the false impression that our
corporate headquarters was somewhere nearby.
In reality, headquarters was randomly relocated many
times each month, sometimes to places tucked deep in
volcanic mountainsides or to caverns under the sea,
where even nuclear explosives couldn't penetrate.
For the non-bogus workers, this meant a new office in
a different building or a different city or a
different hemisphere or a different world or dimension
altogether, every few days.
Appearances, brand name loyalties, friends and
families also had to be changed at approximately the
When I was finally asked to leave the Company Zero
apprenticeship program, one day, no specific reason
was given, other than a "re-thinking of issues of
corporate culture," and a "necessary reallocation of
resources, based on unexpected fiscal shortfalls. Or
I immediately joined the "Smiling Saint Genocide:
Mafia Bitch" Project. Its meetings consisted mostly
of its chairman complaining that his monkey had a
laptop on its back.
When I got home from these meetings, I'd usually learn
that a neighbor or roommate had been dismembered and
boiled up in a soup and fed to some community group
unbeknownst, and they'd all loved it.
Then I dialed a wrong number, but the therapist who
answered couldn't resist running me through a battery
of standardized psychological tests, anyway.
A few hours later, she called back.
"After checking and re-checking and cross-checking
your results with all my colleagues and mentors and
even my students," she said, "It's clear to me and to
everyone else, that what you have is simply an extreme
case of being multi-, poly-, ultra-, para-, super-,
extra-, mega-fucked-up. -- And that's the
She told me I'd better do something fast or risk
evaporating on contact.
"There is only one place," she said, "That even
claims to be able to deal with people like you."
A week later, I found myself at the entry point to an
unmarked treatment city maintained by World Rehab, in
A soft orange-yellow glow suffused all space here,
where things should have been white or gray -- but it
wasn't a new-color sun or just after a brush fire.
A light I didn't know I had, started flickering
somewhere inside my head.
They'd built the world's largest electromagnetic
mountain here, and once you were cleared for entrance,
they turned it on as you passed through.
By the time you reached downtown, it had thoroughly
erased all your ugly, stupid memories, and all the
pretty ones too, and you were nothing, anymore, but
yourself, at the moment.
Non-functioning `48 Chevys and `53 Oldsmobiles sat
parked along Main Street like bath toys -- their only
use, to jump on when you were drunk.
There were few moving cars and fewer people. I
suppose, once you've had all your memories blown out,
you don't really need Main St. anymore, unless you're
new in town.
As I walked past the simulated, boarded-up
storefronts, a `54 Buick convertible came cruising
slow from behind me -- doin' 4, maybe 5 mph.
"Hey - yo! Mah man! Dude!" a voice called from the
driver's seat as the car pulled up alongside me and
slowed to my pace, maybe 1 to 1.5 mph.
"Whatcha got on it?" I said, because that was the only
line I knew for people in cars. It was a call for
specs, and I thought if I got him talking numbers,
maybe he'd never get around to trying to show me his
fucking baby pictures.
"Got 500 horses," he said, "437 Cubes, 10 on the
floor, and 6 undocumented on the column."
He reached over as he drove and popped open the glove
compartment. He took out a stack of owner's manuals
and, leaning across the front seat, held them out to
I had to walk into the street to get them, and I didn't
even want them.
"I don't want your fucking service manuals," I said.
"I only said what I said cause it's the only line I
know. I don't care what the answer is."
"Then you're my kinda organism," he said, pushing open
the door for me.
We cruised down Main St., and he told me about his
days in reform school. I didn't have any memories,
so he got to do all the talking. So what.
He reached into the console and pulled a little vial
out and held it up to the light that came dead down
Main St. thorough his windshield.
"Di-methyl, tri-chloro, Di-hydro-phenylalanine
sulfate," he pronounced, phonetically. "Street name:
'Not-to-be-alone.' The number 1 motivation drug.
Outlawed 3 years ago."
We came to a section of the street where makeshift
cardboard stalls and tables offered all possible
consumer items, but had no customers, and the vendors
"The drug," he said, pointing at the bottle and taking
his eye off the road long enough to almost hit a line
of parked cars, "Works by making you think you're not
alone in the world. You are, therefore, willing to
take great risks to try to kill your friends and loved
ones, knowing full well, they'll be there to save your
ass, when you fail."
Storefronts drifted by as he talked, his feet so light
on the pedals, his fingers so light on the wheel.
"When it was outlawed," he continued, "I was able to
invent a legal placebo that worked exactly like it --
if you believed in it enough when you took it -- and
I'd found a backer with deep pockets and
interplanetary distribution channels at his
His tone turned somber. "But then, suddenly, just 2
days before full-scale production was to begin, the
backer had a nervous breakdown and was committed to an
institution. Without his cash, all activity on the
project stopped immediately, and no one else could be
found, willing to bankroll it.
"So I took my $500 advance, bought this old Buick, and
have been cruising up and down Main St. ever since,
waiting for something to happen. And, right now --
Eventually, I was kicked out of rehab for being
"either beyond sickness or beyond motivation," and put
on the bus for Rabid City, across the border, in Saudi
I settled down there because it was the only town in
the hemisphere that still accepted World Ponzi Markers
as legal tender, and that was the only currency I had.
The streets of Rabid City were littered with the
bodies of people who'd wanted desperately to be mad
dog killers, but had failed miserably at even being
These people now found themselves in low-level service
jobs, ancillary to the mad dog killer industry, with
no hope of advancement. Many had dropped the fantasy
altogether and opted for other, less glamorous
careers, like Hospital Investigator or "Fuck Money"
Despite these losers, this town was still well on its
way to being recognized as the Number 1 mad dog killer
town in the world.
Not only did many mad dog killers grow up and operate
out of here, but many up-and-coming mad dog killers
from small towns everywhere, came here to study and
make important career contacts.
And many famous mad dog killers of the past, when you
looked into their records years later, turned out to
be originally from here, as well, though you'd never
have guessed it.
This was the kind of town where maybe 1 out of every
20 cars that went by had a muffler.
Every bar in this town had a core group of regulars
who sat around all day long, bitching about how the
only real alternative to being an asshole and a loser
in this life, was to be just an asshole or just a
This was the ugliest town in the world -- but all the
others were worse. And this was still the best town
in the world to be pissed off in.
Hundreds of valiant wars had been fought here, over
alleged encroachments on the other guy's sacred piece
All the trucks and buses in this town had "Ain't My
Planet, I Just Eat Here!" bumper stickers, and all
their drivers wore "I Don't Know, And I Don't Wanna'
In this town, every company was a world company -- but
then, in this world, every town was a company town,
and in any company, every world was a small-town
The only crime here was screaming "Fire!" in a theater
when there really was a fire. If you screamed it,
and there was no fire, or if you killed the Pope,
that wasn't a crime.
Under these circumstances, I quickly fell into a bad
shit of the head. I was the Chuck Yeager of being
fucked-up -- pushing the envelope of despair. When a
cigarette is just an excuse to exist.
My days were adventures in slo-mo: waiting for the
next angry creditor, the tax service, the courts, the
World Peoples' Bureau of Investigation, or World Repo
to come get me for either being, or not being, enough
of a dickhead.
But, then, suddenly, before I knew it, this nothing --
this absolute, fucking nothing -- this lameass,
worthless, piece-of-shit, scumbag nothing -- this
eternal, endless, stupid, useless, piss-dumb nothing
-- this flaming, flying, creeping, slimeball, dishrag,
slutbucket nothing -- before I knew it -- it was
Then, it was everything.
I was given a job where I just had to sit around all
day, scanning the skies for a slow-spiralling football
that would appear to come out of nowhere.
In reality, this would most likely be a long lost
pass, vanished mysteriously, centuries ago, from some
busted Hail Mary Play, in the climactic moment of some
I did so well at this, I was promoted to a position
where I just had to walk from my apartment to a
grocery store, and come back with a box of Twinkies, a
bottle of Altdorfers, and a soft-pack of Mitsubishi
But, to do this, I had to push my way through huge
crowds of hunger-strikers, demonstrating
round-the-clock, demanding more prissiness in murder
These demonstrations had been going on for years and
occasionally turned violent, with hundreds of lives
lost in a single day and thousands of people injured.
And many of the participants openly advocating world
During this period, I began having a recurrent
nightmare. Then I'd wake up and it was just my life,
so why worry?
All new residents of Rabid City were required to
submit a cell or two for DNA analysis, and the
genologist who did mine got all excited as soon as she
She came rushing over, beaming with pride and shook my
hand vigorously, congratulating me again and again for
having both the "savage kamikaze" gene and the "bitter
"You're a sure bet to win either the
Recluse-of-the-Year Award from the International
Brotherhood of Kamikazes," she said, "Or the
Kamikaze-of-the-Year Award from the Union of Concerned
Recluses. And possibly both, and possibly many times
But she couldn't tell me how long I'd have to wait, or
specifically, who I'd have to blow, before I'd be
permitted to receive even prize one.
So I quit my job and moved into a Universal Generic
Habitat in an Automatic Survival Zone on the outskirts
of town and set in to wait it out, getting by mostly
on General Motors Nutrient Bars and Kool Filters.
That was fine for a while, I guess, but then, one day,
in the midst of all this, something seemed to snap
I assumed it was "the Call" -- which I'd seen
advertised so much on the covers of matchbooks and,
mysteriously, in the flaming heat-shields of returned
re-entry pods, given up for lost, decades ago -- and,
without thinking further, or trying, I suddenly
understood what had to be done:
Someone had to bring the Near-Death Experience to the
masses, in a lo-cost, recreational, "home" version
that anyone could afford.
Simply in the interest of redistributing power and
understanding and fun. And, thereby, levelling the
so-called playing field.
Until then, only the wealthiest and most famous people
could pay the price of or even knew about the
Near-Death Experience as a vacation option or weekend
If my work was successful, the common man would
suddenly have access to this technology, and at a most
reasonable price point.
And the only real difference would be that my "home"
version would have a, roughly, 40% accidental death
rate, while the "unaffordable" version (performed by
top medical practitioners in clandestine,
ultra-hi-tech facilities), had only about 10% of its
superstar clients accidentally receiving the
Then, suddenly, there was a day with no pain. I was
so troubled by this, I called my doctor.
"Don't worry," he said, "It'll pass."
But could I believe him? He lived in San Luis Louie
and "It'll pass" was their state motto. Old men sat
around old barrels there, in old grocery stores all
day, saying it to each other.
So I called my lawyer. "My doctor's fucking up," I
said. "He's starting to quote from state placebos. I
want to sue for malpractice."
"Don't worry," my lawyer said. "I'll get right on
But I didn't like the way she said it.
So I called my CPA. "My lawyer's talking like she
just got off a spacecraft," I said. "I'm not sure
what to do. I need somebody to help me sue my
"Don't worry," she said, "I have this friend -- well,
he's not really a friend, but I like his car. He's
not really a lawyer, but he seemed very smart and I'm
sure he knows enough to sue your doctor. I'll call
him for you right now."
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. It was a wrong
number, but he knew my CPA anyway.
"She doesn't know what she's doing," the guy said, and
he recommended a roofing contractor who could
efficiently kill both her and my lawyer.
just to be the most innocent person alive, and then go
out and prove it, day after day, all over the world,
country by country, city by city, room by room, one
soul at a time.
So I started out in Satan's Triangle and, from the
first minute I arrived, I was definitely the most
innocent person there.
Then I went to Slovo-Czechovskia, where it was between
me and one other person.
But, at the end of a week, he came up and admitted
that I was much more innocent than he could ever dream
From then on, I could walk into almost any garage or
any arena, anywhere in the universe, and when I told
them I was the most innocent person they'd ever seen
or would ever see, no one dared to disagree.
"And, as an added bonus," I told them, "I'm also the
biggest asshole you've ever seen -- and without even
As my reputation for innocence spread globally, I was
flooded with offers from civic groups who wanted me to
come help them set up new TV networks where all the
newscasters would have angry, bitter expressions on
their faces but, then, always smile inappropriately at
the end of each newsstory about death and destruction.
"I'm sorry" I said to all of them, declining their
gracious and stinking offers, "But I'm already too
busy doing and being virtually everything there is to
do and be -- from Pyro-Humanist to Ego-Socialist to
Labor Pan-sexual. From Klepto-Maoist to
Nympho-Keynesian to Market Para-maniac."
Of course, when I'd finished doing and being all these
things, and suddenly needed work, all the old offers
were gone, and the only job I could get was designing
product warning stickers like:
"Do Not Plant Car Bomb In This Car,"
"Do Not Disconnect This Refrigerator With Child Still
"Do Not Release Swarms Of Pissed-off Wasps In This
Packed Auditorium During World Grand-Slam All-Star
Games of Character and Motivation."
Then I got a job in a store that, instead of selling
things people wanted to buy, only sold books and tapes
and songs and stories and posters and clothing about
things people wanted to buy.
And the bulk of my work there was simply cleaning up
the puddles of tears and white goop that casually fell
to the floor in long viscous strings from the corners
of the patrons' mouths as they stood, for hours on
end, gawking at cardboard mock-ups of artists'
renditions of actual product packaging.
Then I got a job at a bookstore that catered only to
slimeballs and dickbrains, and the only books we
carried were their all-time favorite literary
masterworks like Slimeball on a Hot Tin Roof, and
The Slimeball Who Came in From the Cold, and Look
Homeward, Slimeball, and The Magnificent Slimeballs,
and Sons and Dickbrains, and To Kill a Dickbrain, and
Bonfire of the Dickbrains, and The One Minute
Dickbrain, and so on.
One day, at work, I overheard Satan crying to herself
in the washroom.
"Why is every door always locked to me," she sobbed,
"And surrounded by vast mine fields and electrified
barbed wire fence?"
Then I got a job writing the form letter apologizing
for nuclear missiles which sometimes went a little
awry during disposal attempts and accidentally hit and
demolished innocent civilian non-targets.
Dear Accidental Victim, [I wrote]
Please excuse this inadvertent nuclear
explosion on your premises. You have, of
course, our most heartfelt apologies for
this mishap which, let me straight out
assure you, had absolutely nothing to do
with you or with anything you've ever said
As you know, [I continued] accidents like
these are unavoidable in our modern
world, and the blame does not go to people
like you or to people like me, but no
doubt, belongs to software -- of which,
mankind has neither understanding nor
In closing, then, I trust you can feel our
sincerity -- if you know what's good for
you -- and will please, therefore, get the
fuck off our backs and go harass somebody
Once I'd finished this letter, my employers
immediately ran off all the copies they needed, sent
them all out, and no longer required my services for
The next few jobs after that are a blank in my memory,
but may well be the subject matter of the rush of
images that come to me sometimes, uncontrollably, and
seem totally familiar yet cannot be pinned to any
concrete piece of my fucking life as I remember it.
If these image streams do not come from forgotten
pieces of my life, then they must either be old dreams
suddenly remembered for the first time, or else
extra-sensory experience of someone else's awful past
or loathsome future.
Then, possibly as a reward or consolation for being so
fucked-up, I was hired to run the grinder at the meat
market of either ideas or desire -- I forget which.
First day on the job, I learned that the gut-wrenching
sounds of bone going through the machine, were all
digitally synthesized -- straight from numbers and
waveforms -- and that the small, coarse chunks that
spewed out the nozzle, were all made of
Second day at work, I learned that the meat market
itself was just a front for a multi-function
warehouse: all its interior walls were flat panel
plasma, which could display absolutely anything,
anytime, under control of software alone.
So that any religion could saunter in, at a moment's
notice, insert its own disk, reboot the house system,
and -- Bang! -- instant holy place of whatever flavor
Then, a few hours later, a para-military group could
march in and turn the place into a custom supply dump,
housing, for example, tactical biologic placebos, or
handheld pseudo-thermonuclear devices that ran on Utah
When I'd had this job for a while, my supervisor
called me on the phone, one day, and asked why I
hadn't been to work in 3 months.
I told her I'd gone straight and was no longer
fucked-up enough to carry out my assigned duties.
She knew I was lying, but didn't know which part, and
didn't really care. She didn't need that in her skill
set, and had risen quickly to the top without it --
simply by virtue of belonging to that class of people
who could walk briskly into any problem situation,
without ever looking down or breaking stride, and yet
never step in a fresh puddle of dog piss, no matter
how unavoidably waiting, dead-ahead, in their path.
She offered me a different job where all I'd have to
do was think back to the beginning of recorded time --
to just before the North American Repartition. But I
"I just got through linking many geographically
disparate pockets of population and infrastructure
with high-speed, command/control, expert-system,
interactive hypertext front-end, neural-net,
fuzzy-logic stackware," I told her, by way of apology,
"And, boy, are my arms tired!"
would you like
to sit in today?"
One night, I was unable to sleep from all the noise of
ancient, illegal, disappeared airliners suddenly
reappearing at just that moment in the airspace above
me and slamming down into civilian neighborhoods
I got up, finally, and went out and got so drunk and
stoned, that I must have accidentally interviewed for
(and landed) a high-powered, high-paying,
high-prestige position, crying openly in public
places, 12 hours a day, 6 days a week.
This was considered an important function for society,
because without it, experts feared, the people might
get all slimy and stop asking fundamental questions
like "What is this tragic, stupid existence no more
than mere vestige of?"
[ End: Part 1 of 17 ]