I found something…

I’m outside of it all. Outside the Blue Velvet Suite. Outside the wire. Outside all of it with just a Big Gulp filled to the brim with Gin (Bombay Sapphire rogues who don’t understand good liquor) and Sprite and I’m seeing stars up above and I’m sure something Black is looking down at me and giving me a wink that makes me shudder. I’m sitting on this boulder out in the open. Pahrump is well passed midnite cold right now. Cold like Rios’ dead body wherever they finally buried it after his trailer disappeared. I’m wrapped up like an old medicine man in so many blankets with a campfire blazing like a million torches. Mother Midnite don’t care if I’m out in the desert all alone because she’s at the hospital tonight after I grazed her cheek with an .22 target pistol round. Didn’t know she was out there in the kitchen getting a glass of warm milk.

The .22. The assassin’s weapon of choice.

I feel bad. What’re you going to do, you know? Innocent people get in the line of fire all the time. Doesn’t mean I need to give up my inalienable gun rights does it? This is a society on the brink of mass extinction brought about by its own puppet masters!!! The Maoists in Washington might want to disarm EVERYONE in order to set us up for mass slaughter during mass revolution but the Second Amendment is for all Americans RIGHT NOW and not just Americans who have a clean bill of “mental health” quote unquote unquote.

The Cult is playing on speakers hooked up to a laptop with the aircard catching found wifi. It was one owned by the son of Mexican Drug Lord or so the guy at Tech Shaq intimated. I Love the Cult. Love the song playing. Love is the song playing. I am alone under a dark blanket sundered by white stars. I spent a long time on this road, in this town. Sums up my life, really. All gone out here-

Sneak the Steven is dead.

Redneck Ron is doing twenty long.

Dr. Midnite abides.

Old Man at Midnite moved on toward better pastures, apparently. He just said he had a place somewhere better to be in the stars way above (that’s some good mescaline to be thinking crazy, friends and kitties CRAZY)… I remain, alone in a desert, gun and gin in hand. I still wave the flag. I still play The Cult.

Here’s the thing: Hollyweird and the rest of the Red Army encamped in Washington (known as the DemonRATS) think that guns should only be allowed only for people who haven’t had moments of mental weakness like I have…

… I mean, sure, one time I was visiting cousin Eugene in North Jersey and I shot up a donut store where this kid was giving me lip about not being able to use Diner’s Club anymore or some sort of wacky con job Wizard-Magik.

Sure I did that. Once.

No-where in the Constitution does it say anything about giving up your guns because you have had a moment, got crazy, questioned everything Pat Buchanan ever told you and went Lizard King at the Donut Storr. Washington, Jefferson, even Harry Truman never thought twice about you not having a gun because you started to hear the voices of the dead wanting you to commit some Long Needed Justice at a Donut Storr because Teenybopper Special of the Week was screaming his lungs out about Diner’s Club cards.

It was my OK Corral. I was Doc Holiday.


They’re already questioning me about what happened to Mother Midnite. I JUST held up my copy of the constitution that I’VE highlighted in crayon (Yellow Rose of Texas) and pointed out that I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO A GUN DESPITE SEVERAL LIES MY PSYCHIATRISTS AND VARIOUS POLICE AGENCIES HAVE BEEN STATING ABOUT ME BEING A HAZARD TO MYSELF AND OTHERS IN GENERAL.

I may be drunk at this point, friends and kitties. Even a Big Gulp is a Big Deal to me when it’s filled with- with whatever-Gin AND SOME Sprite. I just TOPPED-OFF midway through typing on this Mexican Druglord Kid’s laptop with a bottle of Beefeaters or some other good old fashioned intoxicant. I got the RHINO-stomach and I can just knock back alcoho-fun without consequences, so excuse me “Squares” if I can’t maintain a proper blog rant. Okay?

Cool out everybody.

Is that my mother coming back from- no it’s not. Just Coyotes all around, past the fire and out into the black of the desert night and its beyond-ing. Maybe it’s Jerry Brown communing with spirits out there, again. You never heard that before? Jerry Brown communing with spirits? He does. The once and future Governor who may end up in charge of the United States of America and all its NUKES, is a dancer with the spirits. I’ve seen him out here, sometimes in Bonnie Springs beyond Vegas, singing his songs of praise to pagan demons out in the late hours.

I got pictures-

You don’t want to know… but I got pictures of an old man dancing under the moonlight like he’s having a personal movement of bliss and nirvana in the cold heart of a desert, naked as a jaybird. It always rains flowers when the music begins- and that’s not just a lyric from The Cult, that’s how Jerry Brown ends his rituals.

It rained flowers when the music began.

Scary weird stuff, friends and kitties. Stuff not to think about by yourself when all that’s between you and the cold dark night of the desert is an AR-15 and a bundle of Indian blankets covering your hide while the Governor of California communes with dark spirits like some pagan war chieftain.
Black magic for the man in charge of the 8th largest world economy.

If California were its own puppet nation-state (like Italy) it would be a force to contend with, measure twice and cut once. Even cross to the other side of the street on. What do you expect though in a world that cowers under the hash glare of the something Black out in the Beyond and the 88 leaders of its Lizard Kingdom?

I’m telling you some truth out here. Best your forget it.

Jerry Brown’s pagan paternalism is nothing compared to some of the oddness and strangeness of the Darknet I’ve seen lately. Oh yeah. I cruise its midnite wastes. Out in the dark of the desert and the dark of the night I cruise a Dark Net to see what comes up in the surf by the only light I have left. The flickering light of the laptop screen of a Dead Mexican Druglord’s act of apology to a son he never really knew. And the light of freedom burning in my heart.

Now… the real reason for this post. All that other stuff was just to lose the casual observer. But here’s something to chew on. Something real Crazy…

So, here’s this New thing: a new video came up on then old Darknet- an old Steve McQueen movie produced back sometime when bellbottoms and free lovin’ were all the rage. 1970s. Never released, though, or at least as far as IMDB is concerned. It’s called “Five Years After”. Beautiful film except for the sound quality and the fact it looks like it was recorded on a CCTV feed of that time period (which is basically like watching a music video on your least favorite potato).

I’m watching this cinematic travesty, right, and I’m weaving in and out of consciousness -(Dunhills battling the fog of war I call “too much scotch”)- and I wouldn’t have really caught this little trick if it wasn’t for that fact I burned a hole through three blankets and caught my shirt on fire and hit pause at just the right moment to save the last of the scotch I’d considered dousing the flames with. (Don’t worry I managed to put myself together by rolling in the sand and scorpions). Judge me all you want, “well wishers” but when a man has been chugging Top Gear Scotch, well guess what? Accidents and fires are gonna happen just like a winner hitting a Black Jack.

Stop it. Stop being a child about the facts of life.

“Five Years After” is a great film, though it’s perhaps the strangest from the time period. I mean Steve McQueen is the big bad dude of the times, the early seventies, and boy does he put together a lunatic-pie of a film here,. He wrote and produced it. First the production quality is- I mean it’s lower than that bootlegged copy I saw of Jerry Lewis’s “The Day the Clown Cried” (another little misplaced gem never to hit the theaters)- its black and white, grainy as hell, and hard to hear (voices are mumbles and shouts and screams are barely a whisper) but man is the gun that Steve McQueen uses, it (Mosin-Nagant, 1891) booms across the screen. It’s a bad little thunder bumper pre-Commie Russian Rifle and McQueen utilizes it better than any Mare’s Leg he used to put down the bad guys before, sniping them one at a time as they sit in their greasy diners or their roach motel rooms or riding the range on the back of their stolen Harleys.

I mean McQueen was one bad mother-(shut your mouth) as he just annihilates the competition – this Mexican biker gang. This actual all ethnic Mexican gang that you won’t see anymore because political correctness dictates that all violent organized crime gangs have a fair employment rule where they must represent all races (and if you don’t understand this to be SARCASM, I got news for you bud, I am the one who quips). He just mows them down because they kidnapped and tortured to death his Mad Max Convoy gang They even killed one girl by sticking her neck deep into a sand pit and pouring honey and ants all over her head- that part was really crazy, I mean I was spitting scotch and out and out laughing. I mean the scene just went on for like 30 minutes and this girl is screaming and biting her lips and she’s got ants crawling all over her and you can just see them start to bore holes right into her cheeks, I mean its awful. Maybe that’s why it got pulled from theatres. Too real? Seemed real. To me at the time. I don’t know, that post Vietnam post-Watergate era of Hoory for Hollyweird were up for a lot of nutty stuff.

…Anyway, McQueen goes one-man guerrilla war with his Mosin-Nagant and a danged up GTO and just kills Mexicans. I was so happy when he set the leader on fire in a parking lot after crushing him with his car that I didn’t notice there was a whole frame missing from the footage. When I rewound it back you can see around the 1:43:03 mark, right before Steve McQueen starts to urinate on the pinned biker, the thing goes black. The frame is “missing” and in a blink you’ll miss it- but of course, Dr. Midnite never misses something that could potentially have a prescription for fixing the world. I stared at it for a long time until I saw the world “Help”. It was just a darker shade of black.

Turn of the TV freaky.


Then this sudden disco colorized washed out funky WA WA shootout between McQueen’s other little sister and this biker goes Super Bronson. As in Charles. As in Deathwishes 1-5. And you know what, I found another missing frame right in the middle of that whole crime scene. And this time there was a problem. A problem to be solved.

And there it is- a math question.

Check it, friends and kitties:

I wonder what the answer is. And does it have anything to do with www.doormouse.link/mayhem and the Black Helicopters in the distance every time I log in.

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