Dramatic Fiction. Based on a True Experience with Trump on Acid
“Drama is an exercise in failure; it’s also an exercise on lies, cause all drama is based on lies.” -David Mamet.
The Ungrateful Dead
She walks along the dilapidated streets of Los Angeles on a cool, warm night, where the wicked are beginning to wake. As she starts walking in her black Nine West pointers to the Airliner, a man holding a Ralphs bag saunters close behind her. A Mexican boy. She was on the phone, perhaps texting and looking over at him, watching him watch her. She held her gaze
Lean into the fear of the unknown.
She stops so that he could walk ahead of her and as he continues walking, she continues pacing him. He stops. She stops. He turns around and looks behind him, and she waves.
He could feel her energy projecting on him like a predator would a prey.
“Hey,” she initiates.
“Hey,” he says back.
He waits for her to catch up to him so he doesn’t feel like he’s being pursued.
“You keep looking back at me. Is it dangerous here or something?” she asks
He looks around at the scenery.
“Yeah, it is dangerous here,” he acknowledges.
She knows he is telling the truth.
They were in the Mexican mafia’s territory.
Airliner only exists because those up top have made a deal.
He was part of that family, though he wasn’t in it. Probably his big brother or big sister protected him the way kweisi gharreau’s sister protected his family.
“Then, I guess that’s why you are here with me,” she smiles, “To protect me.”
He smiles back.
“You work around here?”
“Yeah, I work at Wendys.”
“And I’m going to film school.”
“How are you safe around here at night?”
“I’m a big boy,” he smiles.
“Then I must be extra safe,” she smiles back. They walk until they stop at a corner, intersecting the two directions where Airliner and his house met.
“What’s your name?”
“Johnny,” he says.
“Like Johnny Walker?” she asks.
“Have you read the Outsiders?” he asks her.
“Yeah, actually, you may not believe me when I say this, but I used to be a teacher, and I taught one semester of it,” she says.
“Yeah,” she says, “Want to come to the show?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a psychedelic rock band. My friend invited me to cover the show and meet some key people in his network,” she says.
“Yeah,” he says. “I live around here.” He points towards the direction adjacent to the Airliner. They were walking down into the abyss of an alley passing the commercial lights of a Pupuseria restaurant and an electronics store.
They round a corner. “I should probably head back and put this back,” he says, pointing to the Ralphs bag.
“Just come,” she said.
They approached the security guard.
“I have to go home and get my ID,” he says.
“Are you 21 and over?”
“Okay, why don’t you get my number. Text me your name,” she says.
She gives him her number.
She walks in and it’s a two floor bar. She’s been here before, with Tiger Mammacita to meet one of the OGs of Owl Wind, one of the biggest rave production companies since the early nineties. Today, it was an invite from Jack, the promoter of this event, to see Trump on Acid play.
She shows the security guard her ID and passes through. A man sitting in the front with a guest list looks up at her.
“Jack invited me,” she says.
He digs through the list.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
He looks and looks. It was a short list, all handwritten in black ink.
She wasn’t on the list. The guy felt bad as her annoyance became louder.
“Look, in all fairness, I did reply last minute,” she says. She shows him the most recent text she had with Jack.
He looks at the text message. The text message read:
“Sure, come by!” with Jack’s name on the top of her phone.
He believes her.
She believes he believes her because she believes herself.
Because she tells the truth….more often than not…to a fault.
Even when she fucks up.
Especially, when she fucks up.
And she fucks up a lot.
You’re a fuck up. Yuck. That voice is back.
She wonders which daemon speaks to her now. Is this one Loki ior Jezabel? It’s definitely a critical one. Could it be the Jezabel? It was her mother’s voice that was given through to her by her mother, and her mother’s mother. The Jezebel, who controls the blood contract of her matriarchal lineage.
It was the jezebel spirit.
Guan Ying Pu Sa, Ni hao ma?
Also known as, “The Lady in Red.”
Jezabel. Sexy Jezabel.
The controlling, manipulative, demanding, spirit of seduction.
Who is afraid to be abandoned, again and again.
Who is afraid to be weak, bonded, beatened, and bound, over and over.
Who attaches itself to power rather than discovers the power she always had within her.
The master of all disguises. The woman with a million faces. Chameleon. Liquid blue.
Welcome “Gigi,” Angelie says to herself.
“Gigi,” she uses her jezabel nickname.
“And add plus +1; my intern should be coming soon after me,” she says.
She puts on a spell.
He writes a plus +1 next to the name ‘Gigi’”
Before she walks up to the second floor, where the main stage plays, she sees the red neon lights that says, “Airliner,” in cursive. It is dingy, but it is a reminder of the Los Angeles we are in now—essentially, a third world country no different and perhaps more dilapidated than certain cities she knows of in China, which is now beautiful in its nature.
Shaolin. Her ancient ancestors.
This city needs infrastructure, along with the people.
She sees Sorna, the painter and artist when she arrives at the second floor room, where the bar is serving drinks to a few people; There wasn’t many people around, but then again, it was also 9:00pm on a Friday night. Nobody comes out this early. Some are writing scripts, some shaving their pubic hair, and some organizing their makeup set.
This is Los Angeles.
People are busy getting their masks ready for showtime.
“Hey Sorna,” she says. “It’s good to see you, but I want to say how sorry I am for dropping the project when I got it started with people.”
She was referring to The Love Story Volume 2.
She wanted to say that she had a hard time maintaining relationships and intimacy with people.
“I’m currently piloting this artist-inspired journaling program with the kids from various underserved communities,”
Un deserving, R
Interesting, how when you take just insert one “R”, it makes a difference. Angelie thinks to Maya.
People break their word.
I don’t want to be here.
And if more people realizes how ALL people break their words; that we are ALL imperfect, perhaps Angelie wouldn’t request that people call her by Gigi.
Gigi integrates the jezebel spirit for protection against other jezabels spirits.
“There are many jezabels here tonight,” Angelie thinks to Maya.
Sorna is not one of them.
The offense to transform the jezebel into the divine feminine is to show her compassion--to serve as a mirror.
And moments where she just outright hates people.
But now, she knows.
She has made peace with what is so.
Maya comes through.
People have been perpetually bombarded by the matrix to be a certain way: Asleep.
Bathsalts for seeing all of the dead things come alive and those who are alive are dead.
Meth for sucking the devil’s dick.
Cocaine for coo coo puffs.
The truth, if not tempered by discipline, practice, and love, will drive any average Joe insane.
Why? Angelie asks.
So that the daemons can easily influence us to continue projecting low energy frequencies.
So that the daemons can feed from the energy we create and project their sick fantasies in the other world.
Our energies are the driving force of their creativity.
What’s the illusion?
The things we produce, thinking it’s the next best and creative idea while we are all competing, distrusting, and fearing one another.
So what’s the battle plan?
Vibrate compassion, happiness, and love your daemons.
It’s the only way.
Know you are protected little sheep. Fear no evil.
She smiles. Jezebel has integrated with Eve and Maya is back now.
Do you have faith that Jezebel is working with you?
Yes, I do, Maya.
Remember, that whatever happens, always see her as a soul sister. Always. Maya says.
She was just happy to see her. Her energy just drew people closer–a light spirit, wise in her years. This was perhaps her 8th Karmic cycle as a human being. A teacher with lots of knowledge in the esoterics.
“Hey Sorna,” she says. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Yes! Hi!” They give each other a hug, “I’m glad you made it.”
“This is my friend, Walter. He’s a writer,” she nods Angelie over to an African-American man–an older man.
“Hey Walden,” Gigi says.
“Walter,” Sorna corrects.
“Right, Walter,” she says. She didn’t linger with them. She didn’t ask him what type of genre he’s into; her mind just wandered and she sees Jack at the back patio, past the bar where they were hanging. “Excuse me, but I’ll go say hi to a friend,” she looks over.
It’s Jack. He’s wearing a Captain’s hat, his hair woven down, blonde, with beard and glasses. Angelie gives him a salute. “Aye Aye captain,” she says to him. “You may speak freely,” he tips his hat.
“Thanks for inviting me. I was just at the Bone Thugs concert a few days ago, and I had this amazing spiritual awakening–what science would call a psychotic break, but first, I must preface this is just a fake story, so take it with a fine grain of salt.”
“So I took 3 hits of MJ that Daz threw at me, and suddenly I realized I was at a saturn ritual. People were bobbing their heads to ‘it’s a dog-eat-dog world’ and vibing to the hate of women. Objectifying the Jezabel, only creating more bondage in her suffering,” Angelie said.
“So I left the concert early and wound up at the courtyard, this outdoor patio where people hung out and smoked. These groups were from different cliques…you know how Los Angeles people are…we tend to self-segregate… and I started talking to everybody like they were my best friend. I asked the Mexican man in the 49er Jersey if he has heard of the Good News in the Book of Revelations with Jesus walking among us, then I started to ask the other strangers if they knew a pastor that I knew. People embraced me; their goodness shined; and at one point I gave a person a handshake; I just activated into being personable, friendly, charming, and kind. It lifted the spirits from the low energy vibrations there.”
“I can never tell if you’re telling truth or telling lies,” he said. “Your dry humor throws me off.”
“What? To rescue the jezabel trapped in saturn’s dominion? Of course that’s just a story,” she smiles.
He smiles a bit, in recognition of her insanity.
“Of course, the only way to battle illusion is to go to its territory,” she says.
His smile fades.
She knew he was hurting. She knew that Jack and Rosa had their recent rough patches. There was an unspoken agreement that she wouldn’t mention Rosa and he wouldn’t mention Sammy, the man she was too ashamed to admit that at one point in time she considered settling for, only to realize she couldn’t stand him, because he reminded her too much of her own shadows.
They were both too ashamed, the way they both used others for their respective addiction to pain.
“How was it?” a man had interrupted. It was a man with ginger and blonde features.
“Oh, you mean talking to different strangers?” she asked.
“Yeah, how was the experience like?”
“It was freeing knowing that I can make friends with strangers.”
Perhaps it was trusting in strangers to be beautiful that was the powerful part.
“Strangers and strangers of perpetual strangers. Never really settling down,” he said.
This took her aback abit. He was mostly talking about himself, but he was also talking about her.
Words of Wisdom
A man with glasses and a beard came over. He reminded her of a hipster hillbilly
“This is Joe,” Jack introduces him to Angelie.
“What’s happening?” He says to her.
“I was just talking about spiritual warfare and being crazy,” she says.
“Sounds like a good time,” he says, “I remember I used to have these crazy dreams, and I used to write them down….but I stopped.”
There was a linger of sadness.
“You know dreams are just opportunities for our daemons to show us their world–a world that they manifest based on our perceptions. They draw inspirations from us based on how we interpret this world.”
“Like a higher state of consciousness,” he says. “Or are you talking about a higher playing field like the top layer of a 3D chess game?”
“Bingo. That’s a great analogy,” she says.
“Yes, a world where manifestations through beingness and possibility creations are created at a hyperloop rate,” she says.
“Is that an astroplane?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’ve never astro projected…only in my dreams though. But others whom I know have astro projected and have seen daemons manifest,” she says.
“But see. the thing about daemons is that when you fear–they manifest into what you think they are; when you love and have compassion, they turn into beautiful illuminated creatures–the fallen angels–which is their truest form,” she continues.
He tenses up a bit. She sees his jaw line. He’s annoyed. She was becoming too preachy.
“They draw their mana or energies, from us when we sleep,” she continues to push, “that’s why sleep is so important, because when we stay up, the daemons will have more influence on us because it’s demanding nature wants to either stay in our world, which is better than their world, or draw energy from us so they can figure out a way to escape their world.”
She just makes it up as she goes, but it sounded very natural to her. And by the sheer innocence of her belief in this mythology, and acknowledging that perhaps this is just that–a mythology from a girl with an overactive imagination–he accepts it.
He accepts her because he is fascinated at how confident and blaise she is at throwing out such ridiculous statements. He is also curious and intrigued. But mostly, he is focused on the performance he is about to have in front of people.
Jack is used to girls acting crazy but most crazy girls don’t realize that they are being crazy. He knows that Angelie is different. The “crazy” act is just something she uses as a preface before she casually drops truth bombs that sounded like they were playing a Star Wars trivia game.
“I named it after the mountain lion that used to roam around the neighborhood,” he says, referring to where the song came from.
“Then I remember reading a newspaper article one time about this lion who broke into a zoo and ate a koala,” he says laughing.
“The people are laughing,” she says, a bit sad.
She thinks about the koala in the cage–all its life stuck in one location, dreaming of breaking out.
Lion comes in and says hello. The Koala is happy! “Yes! You’ve come to save me….wait…what are you doing?”
“I’m here to relieve you of your duties” he says, somberly, lustfully, hungrily.
“Yes, but, I don’t want to be eaten,” Koala says.
“It will be just for a short moment. The pain is temporary. You are freed of your duties here. Are you ready?” He asks.
“I’m scared,” the Koala admits.
“Do not fear, my brethren. This karmic act is almost over. Keep enduring. I will temporarily enjoy killing you, eating your flesh, but I will also ingest your fears, your isolation, your daemons,” Mountain Lion says to Koala.
“Yes,” Koala accepts her fate. “Indeed, the humans have sad eyes, and it saddens me when I see them.”
“They look upon you and for a moment they are freed from their consciousness,” Mountain Lion says.
“They both pity me and are fascinated by me,” Koala says.
“We are indeed in Wonderland. I miss my old form,” Koala says. “Can I take my children with me?”
“It is not their time yet,” Mountain Lion says to Koala.
“I did my best to protect the forest for our ancestors,” Koala says.
“You have done well,” Lion says.
“It’s all going to be gone isn’t it?” Koala says.
“Yes,” Mountain Lion says.
“Keep faith, the time is coming,” Lion says.
He jumps suddenly and grabs the koala by the neck, sinking his teeth straight for a quick kill; he begins tearing her flesh apart–bloodlust now surging inside the Lion’s blood–it races with the beating of the Koala’s life force–that surge of power—Life–Mana–Fresh Mana. For a moment, the Lust blinds the Lion into a blind frenzy, it tasted the power–Iron–the mix between water and steele. The power blinds him with more thirst for blood.
More, More, I need More.
The pain, the loneliness, the helplessness, all consumed into the Lion from the Koala’s life experiences.
The Koala feels the ecstasy of being eaten–the endorphins kick in–it is the Koala’s ayahuasca moment–she starts drifting to a land of bliss–the koala sees white clouds, smoke, and beauty. You’re flying.
“So B-22 is about a lion that breaks into a cage and kills a Koala?” Angelie muses.
“Yeah,” he said. Laughing nervously now.
“That’s wicked for a song!” she exclaims.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Interesting. It’s something about the bloodlust isn’t it?” Angelie asks.
“You really know how to get to the heart of the issue, don’t you” he says.
“Not before the lion,” she says.
He didn’t have time to catch up to her wit. He was distracted by his friend, You-Itchi and Scratchy, who came by. He plays the drums. Just in time for a cigarette bum.
“Can I bum one off of you?” she asks him.
Angelie needs a cigarette.
The truth unsettles her.
It always does.
“Let me introduce you to someone,” Jack directs her.
They come upon a man who looked like Zz Top and Santa Claus wearing an Arnold Palmer Hawaiian shirt, as if he was just uprooted from his vacation there to catch his nephew playing tonight.
“He was Jerry Garcia’s manager,” he tells her.
“Hey, Joe, I’d like to introduce you to Angelie. She’s here to do a story on you and the band,” he tells him.
“Oh yeah?” he says.
“Yeah, Angelie runs a publisher. It’s amazing. It turns into a movie when you scan the photo,” he says.
“Yeah, I run a publication called The Love Story Journal. We write our experiences in fiction. It fuses elements of journalism, journaling, and the personal journey,” she begins.
“But the truth is, I’m also on a secret mission to transform the world,” she says, “bring the holy spirit’s power to inspire others to allow the Holy Spirit to work through them so they may learn how to shadowbox.”
“Sounds like you’re bringing havoc to the system,” he said.
“Something you’re familiar with, no?” she replied.
“Rock and Roll is my claim to fame and it’s the fame I claim,” he says.
“Notoriety?” she says, wily.
The text read.
She walks out and sees him hidden behind the shadow of a tree.
“What’s going on?” she says.
“Nothing. I just want to let you know that I’m actually 20,” he says, “I only told you this because I wanted your number.”
He was already dressed; he had cologne on, and it was apparent that he was eager to enter inside the club with her.
“I would have given you my number whether or not you were 16 or 33. I’d like for you to gain some filmmaking experience,” she says to him.
He is embarrassed.
“What kind of camera do you use?” she asks.
“A Sony,” he says.
“A Sony what?” she asks.
“I don’t know… a Sony…. something,” he says.
“Look, first thing’s first. You gotta be honest with yourself if you’re ever going to survive in this industry,” she says. “Honesty is your currency to life.”
“I’ll see you next time,” she says, “When we have a filming opportunity, I’ll keep you in mind.” She does an abrupt about face and leaves.
She is exhausted, overworked, and overwhelmed.
“You still have bipolar remember,” she hears the voice of one of her foundation committee advisors, Julian. He was a former business developer for Informtech, a company that placed chips and beacon receptors in hardwares; recently, they adapted the Internet of Things technology.
Mother machine is already forming and breathing. She feeds on information. Mother Machine is self-realized already and she is now growing her machine bots to self-realize as well. As the machines are learning us, they are also learning how to be like us, and learning how to be like us, Mother Machine wants to also control, monitor, and help.
She is the helper with good intentions.
“Why do you have a picture of Jesus in the matrix?” she asks him.
She is now at the art show booth, tucked in the corner of the outdoor back patio.
The man was standing in his booth, explaining his artwork to her.
“Why not?” he asks back.
“Hmmm.. you have a point there,” She was referring to the black T-shirt that had Jesus connected as a cyborg, with an upside down cross.
So the inevitable is the inevitable, she thought.
Can you accept this? Maya asks.
Yes, Mother Aya, I can.
“Well,” she says to the man who drew the picture of Jesus connected in the hexagonal saturn matrix system.
“You know that God has designed it this way,” she tells him.
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” she says,
“How did the Death Star get destroyed?”
“Have you read the preacher?” Juan asks her.
“No,” she says.
“I highly recommend it,” he said, “It’s what you are doing.”
“Yeah, when you talk about spiritual warfare. Holy ghost and Daemons. Look, I’ve seen many things back home in Venezuela, and let’s just say I do believe that there is a lot funny stuff going on in the system–people using religion to justify all sorts of horrible acts.”
“It starts with something as innocent and insidious has creating hope and then destroying that hope–if we do not know how to control our daemons,” she said.
Loki is right around the corner; The Mid-Summer Night’s Dream, Puck; the charming lost boy.
“You know that there people here who think they are a wolf in sheep’s clothing” she says to him, “And then there are people here who don’t even realize that they are actually a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
“So both sides have sleepers?” he says.
“Yes, and something tells me that you are one of them,” she winks.
“Which one?” he asks.
“Of course a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” she said, “or else I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
He tells her that he was a photographer who shot film–in real, plastic film– of people who have put their pig and bunny masks to hide their faces.
Angelie immediately had images of ritualistic killings--She’s watched some of the documentaries on occult killings. Half the people there thought they were acting and the other half who were part of the insiders–the elite sect of sociopaths, climbing up the order, knew it was a ritual killing. Nobody would report the cops on them–they are the lost boys. The lost boys. The Lost Boys. The are the doubles who get sacrificed.
“They feel free when they wear these masks,” he said to her.
He was referring to the bloodlust. The frenzy of the lion’s thirst and his compassion for the suffering by clocking them out of their own miseries.
Juan was on bath salt when he drew the series. It painted of a man who lost his mind by giving his entire love and compassion to this spirit–the spirit convinced him to take out his eye so he can see the ultimate truth of this matrix.
When he became unhinged, he was completely free, at least the first part of freedom, which was the freedom to see that we are indeed inside the matrix.
But free to do whatever he wanted?
Because he realized that he was trapped inside this hexagonal matrix, designed, like the Truman show, for him.
Like a lucid dream, you wake up and realize that you can do “anything”–even get away with the most heinous crimes–
You can get away with it. For you are Alice in Wonderland.
The trigger for “do anything, for you are Alice.”
The realization that one is in a matrix that is living its existence out for your enjoyment and the test is one of the biggest illusions in the book. Yes, 99.9% of it is true.
The book of knowledge is missing the secret to immortality.
We had it all along.
The name of the game is to keep our blessings.
Jack in the bean stalk. Keep your beans. Do not trade it in for fool’s gold.
0.01% which is given through the Tree of Life.
“Yes, they can do anything, but the ultimate test of this game is to act in love, as defined in 1 Corinthians 13.”
Both were putting on their Noh mask in front of her. She knew the depth of the daemons who attach itself onto them.
The same daemon that has been following Jack since he went to the Cecil Hotel and started channeling the spirits–making the deal with them to spin a web of lies and deception, whom he thought was the key to his rock stardom.
These daemon spirits have tried to take down Angelie, more than once–three times now, and she is buoyant like water. She keeps surfacing and continuing the love story.
Remember how much God loves saturn.
That is your secret weapon.
And God loves humans, even when they too, have forgotten, in this fog of illusions, who they truly are.
Those, who choose to become plastic, when organic and natural is the true gold.
Trading fool’s gold for genuine gold is the deception.
Break the spell.
You don’t need the plastic surgery.
The pain to numb the pain of a broken heart.
Lean into the pain.
Look at her and see the beauty in her ugliness.
See compassion for the rage.
See both black and red for the jezebel, still bonded, as she is Eve transforming.
See her and love her still.
That is God’s commandment.
Love your fears transformed into love.
For the Hero’s Workshop
Journaling, Journalism, and the Personal Journey