Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1739-1832) is often regarded as one the greatest German writers. He bestowed upon us some of the finest works in literature, poetry, and theatre.
“Love does not dominate; it cultivates.”
“One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and, if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.”
“It’s not the length that counts, it’s the Goethe”
“As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live”
“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe”
“If I have a drinking problem, what business is it of yours?”
“If you’ve never sucked off a man while crying you don’t know what life tastes like”
“To think is easy. To act is hard. But the hardest thing in the world is my penis in the morning”
“Nothing shows a man’s character more than what he laughs at”
“Magic is believing in yourself. And methamphetamines are pretty magical too”
“Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do (gay sex)”
Truly Goethe was one of the great geniuses of his generation. Rip 🪦 🪦 🪦
As we fall further down the technological abyss, bombarded by competing information and ideas, we struggle to make sense of anything.
With an endless stream of movies, television, videos, and literature, we perceive the world through a dramatic prism, unable to grasp that the universe is impartial to our reasoning.
When confronted with this cognitive dissonance, we double down. And the opportunists in the media are all too happy to entertain our delusions.
In a sense, we are living in the “matrix.”
But perhaps this has always been true, even prior to the Internet. Maybe to live in a cultivated society means to live in a “matrix”, and no one wants to admit this.
Because of this, there rises either futile sentiments of cultural superiority, or need to “break free” from the restraints of society. But they’re both fantasies…fantasies that fuel our collective imagination.
Philosophers and theorists have failed to understand this: “the dramatic progression” that underpins our understanding. This is how nationalists can assert dominance, or how Christians and Marxists share an almost identical eschatological worldview despite being seemingly opposed. We view the world through a dramatic lens, and there are bad actors out there that try to entertain it.
All of this lies in our subconscious, and we may not be able to escape it. Being a part of this human collective is what makes us…human. So maybe the real political objective is not more theory, but to take from Sigmund Freud: we need to “sublimate well”.
Some might argue that’s Machiavellian, or utopian, or Orwellian, or naive, or overly optimistic, over pessimistic, liberal, conservative, or whatever.
With the Kantian blockage…or the inability to perceive the universe in its total, final form…it becomes difficult to understand that multiple truths can simultaneously exist.
Or maybe none of it is true.
It doesn’t matter. Stay pissed off if you choose. The universe goes on.
I hadn’t been to Tony’s on 4th in weeks. He brought me a Philly cheesesteak with extra grease. I told him it was my birthday and was ready for an early grave.
“Oh hell, James. It looks like the pawn shop next door is getting robbed. Should I call the police?”
I pulled out my 357.
“Don’t lift a finger you fat, stupid mother fucker. I’ll take care of it.”
I walked outside and the robbers were loading merchandise into the trunk of their Pontiac.
“Freeze assholes!”
They looked up and one of them fired off a 12 gauge. It grazed my right arm. Nevertheless, I managed to unleashed my 357, killing two of them.
The last one ran off. I fired off another round, blasting a hole in his leg. As he laid there bleeding out, I walked up to him and lifted my gun.
“Now I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “Did I fire 8 shots, or only 7?”
“You shot 3! Please don’t shoot me again!”
“Are you sure? Pretty sure I shot 7.”
“Please sir! Call an ambulance! I’m dying here!”
“Well I think today is your lucky day.” I cocked the 357 and a bullet fired out, splattering his brains all over the concrete.
“Holy shit, he was right. I did only fire 3.”
I was in the hospital all night while they sowed up my arm. I couldn’t sleep. LP nudged me the next morning at City Hall.
“Wake up,” he said. “The mayor’s speaking.”
I sat up in the seat and took my feet off the table. LP handed me a cup of coffee.
“Crime has gone up fivefold since I took office,” said Mayor Tortellini. “At this rate, I won’t get re-elected. This killer on the loose, what’s he called?”
“The Hillside Choker, sir,” the LA police chief responded.
“We must stop this killer, this coward, from choking again. He must be behind bars before election season next year.”
The mayor looked around the room. “Does anyone here have any pressing information regarding this case?”
LP stood up.
“I do sir. The rise in crime appears to be linked to the Hillside murders,” he said.
“Obviously, dipshit. Does anybody here have anything else,” the mayor replied.
I stood up.
“I think what LP means, Mr. Mayor, is that the Hillside Choker is motivated specifically by the rise in crime. All of his victims appear to be drug dealers, thieves, pimps, prostitutes, etc. The killer might think of himself as some sort of vigilante,” I said.
“And you are?”
“James, Mr. Mayor. Private Detective.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” the mayor said. “Admiral Majors speaks very highly of you. He told me all about your escapades in Nicaragua.”
“Correction sir, it was Honduras. And with all due respect, Admiral Majors is the dumbest man I’ve ever met.”
“Nevertheless, I am deputizing you for the duration of this case. Welcome to the Los Angeles Police Department. Please don’t destroy this city like you did to Honduras.”
“Thank you sir.”
“This meeting is adjourned.”
LP got up and patted me on the back. “It looks like we’re partners now.” We shared a few laughs and I grabbed my coat.
As I was leaving, I caught a familiar stranger glancing at me. It was the same police officer from Malibu and San Luis Obispo stalking me. He scampered off into the bathroom.
I followed him in.
I kicked open the stall door and pulled out my 357.
“Caught ya asshole,” I said.
While sitting on the shitter, he raised his hands.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into James,” the man said.
I cocked the gun back. “Well you better tell me now or you’ve taken your last shit.”
“You can’t kill me here.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’ve been deputized. I can kill with impunity.”
At that moment, LP came in. “Drop it, James,” he said. “He’s not worth it.”
I lowered my gun. The mystery man got up, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. “I’ll be seeing you around,” he said, and left the bathroom.
“Who is that guy, LP?”
“You’re in the LAPD now, James. There’s some questions you just don’t ask.”
“I got you something for your birthday,” Izzy said as she handed me an oak case.
“Oh Izzy, you shouldn’t have!”
I opened the case and inside was a Korth 357 Magnum.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“I’ve been reading your journals. As you know, I’ve been obsessed with you these last few weeks. Oh please James! Bend me over your desk and have your way with me! I’d do anything for you,” Izzy replied.
“You’re my secretary. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
Moments later, Sgt. LP Anderson of the LAPD came into the office. His tie was undone and holding a cup of coffee. He was absolutely chain smoking.
“You look like dog shit, LP,” I said.
“Can I have a moment alone with you, James?”
I asked Izzy to leave the office. After she shut the door, LP lit up another cigarette.
“The bodies of 20 dead prostitutes showed up in Griffith Park last week,” he said. “The streets are getting out of hand James.”
“I believe the correct term is ‘Ladies of the Night’, LP.”
“There’s a killer on the loose. He’s been toying with us. He left a note on one of the bodies.”
LP handed me the note and I read it over.
“This guy’s sick. And racist,” I said. “Have any of the bodies been Vietnamese?”
“That’s the thing, they’ve all been white women.”
“Damn”
I lit up a cigarette of my own and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. “Care for a shot,” I asked. “I stole it off Franco De Werner on my last case.”
“Please”
I poured some into his coffee cup.
“So what do you want me to do,” I asked.
“I’m asking you on behalf of the LAPD to assist with the investigation. Our detectives are overworked. We need a fresh set of eyes to look over the evidence. There’s something that we’re missing and you know these streets better than anyone.”
I poured the bourbon into my flask. “You can count on me, LP.”
“We have a meeting with the mayor tomorrow. He doesn’t want this information to leak out to the public. He’s also questioning our competence regarding this case. I want you to be there, to help out his mind at ease.”
“You got it.”
LP stood up. “And one other thing, we’re staging a stakeout in Culver City next week. We think we might have a lead. Bring all the protection you need. We might run into some trouble.”
I lifted up my brand new 357 magnum. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve been itching to try this thing out. Izzy got it for my birthday.”
The warm breeze blew through the trees while the sun beamed down. Dead and mangled bodies littered the jungle floor.
I rested beneath a tree, waiting for the Angelikas.
A chopper rattled in the distance. The trees rustled as it hovered overhead. Four ropes dropped down to a clearing in front of me.
The four Angelikas lowered down.
“You’re coming with us,” they said.
“Not today sisters!”
I attempted to fire off a clip, but my rifle jammed. I threw the weapon down. If it came down to hand-to-hand combat, I was fucked.
Three of the Angelikas attempted to corner me. One stood back. I threw a grenade, but one caught it and threw it back. The explosion knocked me back a few feet.
The chopper continued to hover overhead.
As I laid there in a daze, I suddenly remembered: Izzy packed my burst action Beretta. The Angelikas were inching closer. I pulled out the sidearm and unleashed the three rounds into the chopper.
I could see the pilot’s brains splatter across the glass. His body leaned forward and the helicopter came careening down into the jungle. As it exploded, fire rained down onto the three Angelikas.
They might’ve been genetically enhanced. But as I’ve learned time and time again, no one is immune to the destructive force of a fireball.
I walked towards the last remaining Angelika. She instantly cowered down.
“Don’t kill me! I’m the original, I’m not genetically enhanced,” she screamed.
“Where’s Franco?!”
“He’s holed up at the abandoned airstrip a few klicks away.”
“You’re taking me to him.”
I held her at gunpoint as we journeyed towards the airstrip. Franco was in the hanger while his private jet rested on the runway.
“Here’s your communist mole,” I told him.
“Excellent work, Mr. James,” he replied. “Now that I can trust you, I’ll reveal to you my secret plan.”
Franco turned around and removed his eye patch. A brilliant flash of gold appeared from where left eye once was. He laid a steel briefcase on the table.
Inside was a ridiculous looking retinal scanner.
“When I run my golden eye through this retinal scan,” he said. “50 scud missiles armed with nuclear warheads will fire from beneath the Gulf of Mexico. Each aimed at a major city in the Western Hemisphere.”
“You’re a madman, Mr. Werner,” I replied. “You’re not even gonna attempt to blackmail world leaders? What kind of villain are you?”
“Once when the world’s major cities have been destroyed,” Franco continued. “They’ll blame the communists, and leaders of the world will have no choice but to use my services to defeat them.”
“Billions of people will die, just so you can make a profit,” I replied.
“Basically, yeah.”
I’ve seen these cases hundreds of times: madman wants to destroy the world just so he can make a few extra pennies. People will do anything for money these days.
“With that type of destruction,” I interjected. “Nuclear winter could last ages. Are you sure that you completely thought the consequences of your plan, Mr. Werner?”
Franco pondered for a second.
“Shit, I guess I didn’t,” he replied. “Oh well, it’s a risk worth taking. But tonight, we feast!”
Franco left the hanger. Angelika was locked up behind a gate.
“James,” she said. “Franco killed my friends, my family. All I’ve ever wanted was justice. Please don’t let him do this.”
Franco returned with his servants. They were bringing in cartons full of local cuisine out of the jet. He poured a glass of bourbon, then lifted it to make a toast.
The Internet Ruined Everything 