By Fiore Amore
SATURDAY, APRIL 16 — The Evergreen State College attempted to inaugurate a new tradition, the Spring Egg Hunt. The Easter holiday, a divine ray through the oppressive atmosphere of Wet City, appealed to me deeply. I and many others were duped into this horrific exercise. The force behind this eggstravaganza was none other than Police Services, the hired guns of Interim President John Carmichael. more sickening than that was the appearance of a truly profane entity–one of the innumerable body doubles of Speedy Geoduck. The clone army has arrived. Its sole purpose is subjugation.
PHASE ONE: DISORIENTATION
Readers are aware that subsequent to my return from exile I suffered an intense psycho-spiritual response to dark happenings in the South Sound, uncovering the true nature of so-called “Olympia” as the dwelling of The Wet, a being of consecrated melancholy imbuing the city with inescapable moisture. Unprepared for such an occurrence, I was rapidly drained of orgone energy, requiring momentary recuperation.
This process necessitated a seance with the entity known as The Investigator. The Investigator has possessed myriad mortal incarnations since the dawn of time. Some, such as Felix Dzerzhinsky, were active in the realm of espionage and security. All journalists are, on some level, secret policemen. The most widely-known manifestation of The Investigator was the late Hunter S. Thompson, whose parent agency was cynicism, irreverence, and the radical weird. The precise events of this seance are trivial. I must confess, dear readers, that I am no stranger to bouts of spiritual myopia. There is a tendency to treat such a diagnosis with a program of psychoactives, to develop a cocktail of cognition. This has been my modus operandi for quite some time–it is, after all, the plan of action for fools whose reverence for The Investigator begins and ends with the line, “We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold.”
For the purposes of this investigation, my attorney has advised me to go straight egde. The strongest bouts of psychosis are those born from the process I have deemed “edging.” I simply allow myself to experience all manner of withdrawal pains and neuroses for as long as possible while staring at any number of intoxicants. My personal favorite is a bag of dill pickle potato chops (don’t ask). The precise moment of cathartic failure imbues the human mind with an unparalleled capacity to revel in its own uselessness. The consecration of futility is among the most revered sacraments.
PHASE TWO: THE PIT
To ground myself in the day to day motions of Wet City, and to survey the military situation at Castle Carmichael, I made a series of excursions to the pilgrimage site known only as The Pit. I once saw a frenzied devotee of this shrine, known only as Marlboro Mike, strike a man across the face for referring to the pit as “the smoking shelter.” The Pit is indeed a shelter–womb-like, it envelops its residents in an aura of collectivity, wherein they undergo a psychoanalytic fermentation. They are molded into the antithesis of Castle Carmichael, and for this reason I embrace them in blood and tar.
“Do you have a chromecast?” asked one pilgrim to another.
“No. I hate the antichrist,” comes the response.
“Oh are you like, religious or something?”
“No, I’m just really not a fan of the antichrist.”
“So you’re sure you’re not Catholic or whatever?”
“Not right now.”
Yeah.
Let the records show that despite the concerning volume of menthol cigarettes which touched my lips during my survey I remained straight edge.
PHASE THREE: NEWS
I took a Greyhound to Yakima one Thursday in pursuit of a tip regarding Speedy.
This voyage, and my experience of the area overall, was a key illustrator of barbarism. Atop the hills one can see endless, horrid McMansions. If you peer into the windows by whatever means, such a gaze reveals the mundane nightmare that is the life of landowner. The water in the taps of this demographic is blood. It has soaked so deeply into their hands, whose original hue is of course reminiscent of a pale and processed aioli, so as to vanish. Their homes, built from bone and toil, are so thoroughly banal and tasteless that were it not for their terror they would invoke mockery and the most condescending of pities. These heirs to the plantation brutalizers of previous centuries feast not on adrenochrome but chex mix.
Yakima is not a place. It is the backrooms of American agricapital. Class relations are imbued on geographic space in a fashion resembling the most comical of caricatures. It calls to mind the concept of an “internal colony,” a site wherein the reality of empire is domestically visible. In the popular imagination, ruling classes are associated with decadence and tasteful excess. The reality is that the capitalist class lacks class and hasn’t a clue how to use capital. The fruits of exploitation rot in linoleum. The insipid exterior of the castles overlooking the Yakima Valley are expressive of the ugliness of the process of their creation. The gated community is a tragicomedy par excellence, fueled by a network of veins real and artificial. The macabre transformation of ecosystems in pursuit of the accumulative system is profound in its indecent exposure.
I read once that the desert resists this way of living. The wrong people choke during wildfire season.
● ● ●
I gained access to a meatpacking facility alleged to have been the site of suspicious activity. I entered in secret, in the light of the moon. The odor of saltwater and death forces its way into my respiratory system.
My flashlight revealed geoducks on meat hooks. Each was the spitting image of Speedy. I could no longer see a warmth in any of their faces and, were Speedy Geoduck alive today, I doubt I could see such comfort despite its real presence. The heart and soul of this institution has become nothing to me.
It became clear after a few moments that the resting of these creatures on meat hooks did not mean they had ceased to be. They deployed themselves with speed and precision. I rapidly entered a combat situation.
The purpose of the murder and apparent mass cloning of Speedy became clear. These simulacra were to enlist as reserves in the army of austerity. Every budget cut, layoff, and restructuring would be pushed through by a facsimile of the college and its purpose.
I escaped with my life intact. For a moment, I wished I hadn’t
PHASE FOUR: THE EGG HUNT
Jubilation on a Saturday afternoon. Echoes of an excitement no longer to be found.
This was the atmosphere I found in observing the Egg Hunt. Any participant would find enjoyment in the sunshine at this all-inclusive instance of fashionable outreach from the fascists at Police Services. Yet as I saw the hollow replica of Speedy Geoduck fulfill their assigned tasks, I couldn’t help but wallow.
Dear reader, there was not, in fact, any decadence nor depravity at the first annual Spring Egg Hunt. In this circumstance one could only see traces of Normal. But I couldn’t help but wonder what Normal was and what it would mean for those experiencing it.
Towards the end of the event a curious soul asked the alleged Speedy as to whether or not they were a body double and was quickly, forcefully shushed by the demon. They were then shoved into a squad car. I hope they’re okay.
Eventually I saw an egg fall and crack. I thought back to Egg Jonah Eggson, the late biological father of the Cooper Point Journal, and the mission he had set me on. I thought about the fact I had eaten him and thrown him up onto the office carpet. I wondered, then, if I had made a mistake. Maybe.
But the truth must be told, dear reader, no matter how bitter it may be and even in its most deformed and haphazard expressions. And thus, despite my best intentions, the investigation continues onward to oblivion.
