ERRATICA: FROM THE DESK OF FIORE AMORE, ESQ.
OLYMPIA, OCTOBER 29th
The Committee for Pleasant Journalism, a clandestine organization dedicated to uncovering the rot, silica, and asbestos from the hidden channels of the Evergreen State College, was prevented from screening the seminal 1983 body horror film “Videodrome” by David Cronenberg. Flyers were posted and taken down within 24 hours. Fearing for their lives, the Committee canceled the show.
In my last dispatch I made the readership of the Cooper Point Journal aware I was onto something big. The “Videodrome” incident is only a small glimpse into the decadent, dastardly, and depraved underworld of The Evergreen State College. It was an act of retribution against myself, Fiore Amore, Esq., for uncovering an act of unadulterated terror.
Speedy Geoduck, the heart and soul of this institution, has been killed in Mexico on the orders of Interim President John Carmichael and replaced with a body double. The story is as follows.
LOS ANGELES, OCTOBER 25th
Not long after my audience with the late biological father of the Cooper Point Journal, Egg Jonah Eggson, it was revealed to me in a dream that I needed to reconnect with my friend and mentor, a man known only as Doctor Jones. This required a one-way flight out of SeaTac International Airport to the City of Angels.
This was a long and arduous journey. The first challenge your soul must endure is I-5. Words cannot describe the sheer loathing I have in the bottom of my heart for the city of Fife, WA. Once you get past the dreaded unfreeway and approach the airport itself, it is necessary to do battle with an array of dark psychic forces. Your fight or flight reflex must be fine-tuned. You must remain vigilant. When you have received your ticket and checked your luggage, the foe you must face is the fascist entity known as the Transport Security Administration. This rabid gang of sexual impotents will attempt to confiscate the alchemical enhancers necessary for serious investigative journalism. My advice? Consume that set of equipment with great haste prior to entering the airport. Your carry-on will not incriminate you and there is no greater clarity of vision than what you achieve above the clouds, serenaded by screaming children.
Eventually I landed at LAX and took a cab to an undisclosed basement location east of the Río Porciúncula. The sage Doctor Jones resides in a basement apartment the size of the living rooms in Evergreen’s modular housing. The walls are plastered with overlapping written records of dreams, memories, nightmares and visions. An aroma of ginseng tea is undercut by notes of stale menthol cigarettes.
I do not know much about the history of this man. Many rumors surround this bearded eccentric. One night he regaled me of his 1982 saga on the front lines with the Sandinistas, on another we took peyote and he described in detail a passionate and heart wrenching love affair with an undisclosed poet of great fame. A secondary source once warned me that the good Doctor was a KGB asset. This did not deter me. Comrade Jones was an artist, a visionary, and batshit insane. He will forever be the father I never had.
When I approached the apartment of Doctor Jones on that fateful day the 25th of October, I was not greeted by the man I once knew and loved. I saw police sirens and a bodybag. Half the building was gone. My grief was immeasurable. A life, a legacy, gone in a flash before I could say goodbye. It seemed my premonition had been a dark omen. The conspiracy ran much deeper than I anticipated.
After fleeing the scene of the good Doctor’s death, I held a wandering procession throughout the streets of East LA. I hesitate to record the few details of this historic low point. There is no glamour in grief or marvels in malt liquor.
My drunken dérive ended in an alleyway when I could no longer stand to walk. My one associate was the asphalt and absinthe my assassin. I sighed. My sigh became a wretch. I soon spilled my guts. Dear reader, I was ready to die. Perhaps I did.
As the bile left my mouth, a radiant figure appeared before me. Gorgeously garish, this being brought me back to life. This sensual spirit was none other than the deity known as The Profane. Her incarnations are many and millions see her as a muse, including yours truly. In the name of all that is holy I was offered the pleasures of the flesh. This Dionysian exercise was necessary for my health. As I swallowed her cock I sat, sober, breath refreshed and nausea negated, upright against the wall behind me with a renewed sense of purpose.
TIJUANA, OCTOBER 27th
The committee arranged for me to cross the border on a hot tip regarding the fate of Speedy. They had received an encrypted telegram from Doctor Jones the same day I was at the site of his apparently fraudulent demise. He was in hiding, his location an understandable mystery. The time the message was sent seemed to suggest the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.
There was to be a meeting on the outskirts of the city between the Board of Trustees and a shell corporation by the name of Adrenomex. The precise social forces behind this entity remain at this moment unknown to me. Was it a cult? A cartel? The National Endowment for Democracy? Your answer is as good as mine.
The demarcation between the living conditions of the Mexican working class and the milieu the administrative regime of a failing liberal arts college seemed inexplicably drawn to is without words. I managed, by undisclosed means, to work as a temporary server at this most gauche estate. I was forced to sign the most draconian of non-disclosure agreements. But in I went.
I am no purveyor of fantasies and gossip, dear reader. The juicy details of this business meeting are better suited for the National Enquirer. What I do know, and will say openly and without hesitation, is that at the conclusion of this depraved exercise I saw Speedy Geoduck bound, gagged, and taken out back. I watched in horror at the senseless brutality of profit-driven pretenders to pedagogy. After the beating, a new figure emerged from behind Speedy’s lifeless body, holding a smoking gun. The curvature of this figure was unmistakable. As it turned to look over its shoulders, I realized what I was looking at. I was looking at Speedy, and Speedy was looking at me.
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
This account has skimmed on many details. It has been written with great haste under extenuating circumstances. I have been awake for the past 72 hours after narrowly escaping captivity. It has been nearly three months since the events I have reported transpired. I must operate with the utmost discipline and secrecy. I am in exile, in hiding, on the run, beat down, winded, spun, estranged, and feeling randy.
I have heard unconfirmed reports of strange occurrences transpiring in the South Sound. Sinister transformations may be underway. If you or anyone you know has encountered demonic entities, inoperable credit card readers, ketamine plugs who overcharge, people who run their leaf blower too loud, and other examples of gross injustice please contact me via telepathy or electronic mail.
My investigation into the fate of Speedy Geoduck continues.
