This sensual spirit was none other than the deity known as The Profane. Gorgeously garish, this being brought me back to life. Perhaps I did.Īs the bile left my mouth, a radiant figure appeared before me. My one associate was the asphalt and absinthe my assassin.
My drunken dérive ended in an alleyway when I could no longer stand to walk. There is no glamour in grief or marvels in malt liquor. I hesitate to record the few details of this historic low point. The conspiracy ran much deeper than I anticipated.Īfter fleeing the scene of the good Doctor’s death, I held a wandering procession throughout the streets of East LA. It seemed my premonition had been a dark omen. A life, a legacy, gone in a flash before I could say goodbye. 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. He will forever be the father I never had. Comrade Jones was an artist, a visionary, and batshit insane. A secondary source once warned me that the good Doctor was a KGB asset. 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. Many rumors surround this bearded eccentric. I do not know much about the history of this man. An aroma of ginseng tea is undercut by notes of stale menthol cigarettes. The walls are plastered with overlapping written records of dreams, memories, nightmares and visions. The sage Doctor Jones resides in a basement apartment the size of the living rooms in Evergreen’s modular housing. 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.Įventually I landed at LAX and took a cab to an undisclosed basement location east of the Río Porciúncula. My advice? Consume that set of equipment with great haste prior to entering the airport. This rabid gang of sexual impotents will attempt to confiscate the alchemical enhancers necessary for serious investigative journalism. 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. Your fight or flight reflex must be fine-tuned. 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. Words cannot describe the sheer loathing I have in the bottom of my heart for the city of Fife, WA. The first challenge your soul must endure is I-5. This required a one-way flight out of SeaTac International Airport to the City of Angels. 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. 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. It was an act of retribution against myself, Fiore Amore, Esq., for uncovering an act of unadulterated terror. The “Videodrome” incident is only a small glimpse into the decadent, dastardly, and depraved underworld of The Evergreen State College. In my last dispatch I made the readership of the Cooper Point Journal aware I was onto something big. Fearing for their lives, the Committee canceled the show. Flyers were posted and taken down within 24 hours.
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.
ERRATICA: FROM THE DESK OF FIORE AMORE, ESQ.
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