“Cognitive dissonance skitters sideways, nestled in wavelengths beyond vision; a trillion pointy digital claws subliminally tick and click, randomly plucking cosmic strings. Glittering ocelli size up your nutrient potential. Jaw parts scissor wetly ”.  —D. Carey, Feral Artist, 06.20.18

Why do we lionize some mass murderers yet imprison or kill others? It seems to depend on who they work for I guess. All killed somebodies, directly or indirectly, maybe for a reason, be it For God n’ Country, as minions of MegaCorp, or too many crappy grey sub-existential T.S. Elliot mornings in a row, or a half-eaten burger, fries and a soda, or even just plain no fffing reason at all.

Some ‘only’ snuff a ‘few’, like 4-5, or even a couple dozen. The Retail guys. Yeah, mostly guys, though females are edging into the Wholesale game now. Wholesalers. The ones who get a pass.  Bush, Clintons 1 and 1.5, Obama, Kissinger, just to begin a local list that worldwide runs to thousands and sweeps in the morally decrepit miasma of politicos and despots who seem to sprout from the underpinnings of civilizations, inexplicable heroes to many. Well, just not exactly everybody, and probably especially not the dead people scattered in their wakes, but lots of others, especially flag-kissing Amerikans, and 0ne-one thousandth Percenters and their remoras. Their minions whack dozens of hundreds of thousands, or more, and mess up the lives of millions of dozens of others. Free Pass!  for the Wholesale guys and gals. And what about historic trendsetting overachievers like Attila the Hun, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, or countless other mid-level aspirants who nailed a few tens of thousands or so? What moral boundary did they exceed, couched in terms of style or focus, to make their names big for a while, then anathema? Certainly, being on the losing or Registered Barbarian side had something to do with it, but really… Come on! Such boundaries are fluid. There must be more to it. So, I decided to reach out to primary sources.

Originally, the idea was to interview representatives on both sides of the Wholesale / Retail divide, to be a bridge to understanding.  My first State choice, Henry Kissinger, though currently underemployed, was not responsive to inquiries. I am still trying to get through to Clinton 1 or maybe Brzezinski (Awww. Dammit. Now dead. Joined the legions of his victims), or Obama. I’ll keep you posted if that works out.

On the Retail side, I had a chance to talk to Bhob Smith, a mass murderer coaxed from the Silk Road, lurking in the Dark Net (not his real name, in case you wondered or want to hire him, and faintly imaginary. Yes, this is real Fake News). He checked off most of the boxes on my list of qualifications:

• Still walking around Scott free, anon, not under indictment
• Successful: claims over 18 scores. (Spoiler alert! I did NOT! go with him to inspect any of his secret ritual sites scattered across 7 states, though he coyly, slyly offered).
• Average guy looks, low key affect, seersucker shirts, emails in complete sentences, normal caps
• Works as a regional manager in a southeastern megabox store
• Goes to church with his family most Sundays, except when he is out of town for a sales conference
• Willing to talk to me face to face, after a round of emails set the anonymity ground rules

We met for lunch at an Industrial Chain Diner just off the I-X40. I wore the Raiders hat he requested. His was a red MAGA. We went dutch even tho it was my invite: poverty-stricken pixel-stained investigative wretch syndrome. I ordered econo all-day breakfast waffles and eggs. He chose the Beef Tartare Triple Crispy Bacon Grinder with jalapenos on Wry.

We sat quietly, sizing each other up, sipping water. A bit nervous. Did he have my address?  Hope not. I mentally reviewed my questions:

No small talk. Cut right to the point:

As a child, did you practice on flies and kitties, and as you grew older, stew and fume and break cold sweats; plot and listen to cranktalk radio and rabid websites and finally let loose as a duty to a higher calling. Or did you have a sort of normal childhood, yet one day just feel like “This sucks, I have to do this power thing to feel good about myself” and go for it?

Did it just start out as a one-off and you couldn’t stop?

What’s your genre? How do you compose and play out your artistry? Home repair tools? Criminal Minds script redux, minus the mistakes leading to the bust? Braveheart surgery?  Improv?

Are you annoyed that you need to be so covert to execute your plots, while State actors and cops wrap a flag around it and sail off with paycheck, medals and retirement?

Do you think politicians are even remotely qualified for this work, considering the experience, planning and commitment you, an independent sole proprietor, muster? All they do is get elected or just seize power, then point accusing fingers.

What do you feel is the difference between you killing people you carefully select, or working for the government killing people they select, mostly seemingly at random? Is it style or degree, or both? Could your methods be scaled to industrial levels?

Do you resent being labeled a terrorist just because you maybe sometimes accidentally perhaps killed the ‘wrong’ person(s)? That kind of thing can really up the ante and come back to bite you in the rear unexpectedly…

There are so many nuanced rules required to participate in State sponsored killing, especially among police and mercenaries nowadays, what with show trials and all lately.  Is that why you stayed indie, despite the risks?

In a way, you are doing the States’ work for free, yet can still get busted for it. Your actions spur fear, loathing and uncertainty, which serves the interests of the State, and closely parallels, propels and enhances the trajectory of State and police repressions. How fair is that?  You might have to commit suicide before you can have a real impact and finish your story arc.

Do you feel the military is a pathway to being able to commit mass murder, or have military rules, teamwork, hierarchies and technology taken all the fun and personal satisfaction out of it?

On a more aesthetic level, do you feel competition or jealousy over companies selling toxic drugs or food, chemicals or oil, bogus overpriced health insurance, or trick financial instruments, or weapons resulting in myriad painful lives and unpunished deaths, that when challenged, at best garner essentially parking ticket grade lowball fines?

What do you think of drone operators and their bosses?

To really hit the big time, what if there were a way Congress could convert your “anti-social“ retail mass murders to sanctioned “State” murders? Think of it as a path to medieval Guild mastery with full recognition as a valued practitioner, or receiving an honorary degree from an Ivy League school and a chair in a think tank! A promotion, and maybe someday you even get to fire off a few nukes if you get elected Prez? Would you participate?

Do you have any regrets?

Unfortunately, just as our steaming platters of Industrial food arrived and before I could even field question #1, a fleet of blacked out Escalades swooped into the parking lot, popping a podsworth of Mysto-Acro-Kevlar SWAT-like droids, swarming the restaurant, forming a cordon, and most particularly swooping toward Bhob and I.

Bhob cast me a bitter glance, thinking I had set him up.  Not me, Bhob.  I encrypted everything. Blame TOR and a leaky Dark Net. He ran for the kitchen… Too late, of course. The distinct ziiip of tasers and a thud said it all. Leaving me with two brunches, the tab, and no story. The SWATTers were remarkably uninterested in me. I didn’t even get a perfunctory beating, or a thank you… they evidently already had the whole thing bugged, profiled and cross referenced, and I was just convenient patsy reporter bait… They wanted a splashy finish without me cluttering things up with ugly fourth estate shenanigans. He really must have whacked the wrong dude…

A mummified Bhob shagged into the back of one of the SUV’s, the armada swooped away to their next bust.

I picked meditatively at the waffles, pausing in gimlet-eyed zen consternation.  Hunger!  Hey!  Gracefully slithering my eggs into the Beef Tartare Triple Crispy Bacon Grinder with jalapenos, I proceeded to scarf the whole shebang. Soda refill, please! These days the search for protein never really stops, and you can’t tell when it might be your last meal. Borborygmus be damned. Maybe I can skate on the tab.

Helluva day, so far. Gotta get back on that Clinton interview thing, then try Kissinger again or maybe Ouija Brzezinski.  If only I could get Obama to touch on this whole matrix in his book. For $60 mil, from a sensitive guy with such a high body count, that book should be more than a payday bereft of some real meaty insights…but I will probably have to up my ante beyond an offer of cholesterol bomb comfort food and insecure conversation…

Or, on second thought, I could just make stuff up and cut out the middleman. The whole scene is too steeped in violence and exceptionalism, and few seem to give more than half a rats’ ass. We’ve seen this crap before. Let’s hope it’s not permanent or speads to Mars!

—Dan Carey