The Whole World is a Conspiracy

The mostly sensical writings of Johnny Taylor

Well, So Much For That. Also, “I Can Smell Your Future”

It has now been over a month since my last post. Wow, the time really flies out the window. To the one dust-bunny out there keeping track of who actually writes everyday. I promise I have been, just not here. Well, almost everyday. Most days at least.

I’ve been working on a bit of a manuscript for a short novel, novella, story that isn’t quite short but isn’t long. Whatever label you want to put on that kind of thing. The story focuses on a group of friends, one of whom is a genius, drug-addicted scientist who invents a crazy drug that gives you a vision of your future and through that a time machine. But of course everything goes wrong the whole time.

Beyond that, I, me, myself have been deep into “Game of Thrones” (the actual first book, titled “Game of Thrones”) in eager anticipation for the return of the show on April 6. That show is just too too much, in every kind of good way. Besides that, I’ve been reading “Choose Yourself” by James Altucher. His blog is pretty fantastic. As usual, with human-life I can’t agree with everything he says, but for the most part it’s pretty great.

I don’t know what this post is about. I’m really just rambling on. WordPress sent me an e-mail reminding me that I started this thing and that I’ve been neglecting it like a baby in a crack house. Hm, maybe a quick little short story will come of this. Let us seeeeeeeeeeee! (voice trails off into the distance as a new adventure begins!)

This is just a short little story introducting an idea for a character I have for another story I plan to write. A down on his luck private investigator with a psychic sense of smell.

I Can Smell Your Future

“Depending on your own proclivities towards the reality in which we all preside, you may or may not be aware of the ‘psychic’ phenomenon. A psychic is a person with the fantastical ability to see or sense things that would otherwise be undetectable to the average layperson. Some would say that they see the future or the past, some would say they can sense the presence of spirits, some even hear and speak to the dead or the ‘never-alive’.

“I don’t have any of those particular gifts, but I do have a gift that allows me to call myself a ‘psychic’. I am what the psychic community would call a ‘clairalient’. I smell the presence of the past and future, the dead and the ‘never-alive’. Unfortunately, because of this ability I can’t smell the things that are actually physically around me. I can’t ‘stop and smell the roses’ because I’d actually be stopping to smell what someone 1,500 miles away is having for dinner a week from now.

“Sometimes it is a random sort of ability, giving me strange experiences at strange, usually inopportune times. However, after many years of meditation and practice, I have become fairly in-tune with the ability and can use it for my benefit most of the time. Which makes me realize now that I’m sitting here telling you all of this and I haven’t even introduced myself.

“My name is John Hobbes. I’m a private investigator. John Hobbes, P.I.

“It was only after years of failing at job after job after job that I finally realized my extraordinary sense of smell was only an aside to my actual extraordinary ability to piece together the clues that people leave behind in their daily lives. The clairalience, that’s the psychic smelling, if you forgot, does come in handy on certain cases. Such as the type in which a worried wife comes to me to follow her husband. The smell of a sweaty, fat old-man paying for a younger woman’s college education on the side of his marriage extends fairly well through space-time I’ve come to find.

“I’m sorry. I can’t continue, you really look like you want to say something. Did you want to interject?”

An old woman sat across the table from Mr. John Hobbes, awestruck. She was blinking madly with her lips twisted in a crooked line. “That’s all fine and well, Mr. Hobbes,” she spoke with a porcelain-like voice, “It’s just that I had thought this was the dentist’s office when I came in.”

John Hobbes was in his early 30’s. With shaggy blonde hair, roughly 6 foot tall, and not in nearly as good of shape as he should be for his job. He gave the woman a pouty, frown back. “So you’re telling me, you just sat there and let me explain all of that for no reason?”

“Well, you just seemed so happy to do so. I didn’t want to interrupt.” The old woman gave him a short half smile and then her face turned to a look of concern. “You just seemed like a bit of a lonely man.”

John coughed at that and turned away and he stood up and walked to the opposite side of the room.

“So you have no need of any investigative services?” He had quickly become irritated by the whole situation. There was a new police chief in town who’s brother was also a private detective and the duo had effectively put John Hobbes, P.I. out of business. He noticed people tended to trust the police chief’s brother a bit more than a “psychic detective”.

“Well, no. I just have a pain in my jaw.” The woman reached up and touched her face. “It’s just here. It’s been throbbing a while now and I just can’t hardly sleep because of it.”

John Hobbes sighed a deep breath and raised on eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a look at it for half what you pay at your other dentist.”

Before the woman could object, John had turned on his “interrogation light” and had it nearly shoved down her throat. “So will this be cash or credit?”


Damn Space Pirates

So, we begin here, alone. At the edge of space… Well, not really. But I am alone, floating, and running dangerously low on oxygen. You see I captain a ship, The Barnabas. It was only very recently that I was thrust very inopportunely into my current position of free-flight. It was merely a temporary lapse of judgment that immediately spiraled out of control and leaving Ol’ Barnabas in the clutches of a psychotic man-tortoise creature. A terrible pirate chimera whose story deserves it’s own transcription. But I digress, I was faced with a decision: Take aboard 13 hostile, possibly space-mad and sex deprived man-beasts, and fly to the center of the deadliest asteroid field as only my pilot and ship could; or my crew and myself be hunted for the rest of our lives by the mutated product of a single alien race’s deranged experiments.

We took them aboard.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Frost,” the man-tortoise said in a particularly North-London accent.

“It’s always a pleasure, Holger,” Holger was his human name before they spliced him up with a tortoise, implanted a lifetime a flight and tactical training into his brain, and gave him a fleet and crew comprised of other equally mutated man-beasts. Now he had some unpronounceable gibberish for a name that he claimed was in a tortoise language. (No one has been able to detect a “tortoise language” in any known species on any planet.)

“You know my name, you fil-”

“Let’s skip this, yes?” I drew my blaster and planted it against his dried tortlely-skull, “Right, boys and girls? My crew and I are taking you in for the bounty. So just disarm and you all may live to see another day.”

There was silence for a moment. Then laughter. Laughter? In the beginning, I was a tad bit confused, but that passed quickly as I realized my life was about to be ended by a 14 foot creature that looked like the baby of Gary Busey and a Galapagos tortoise. My crew hadn’t drawn their weapons. Mutiny. Like hell. I fired, tearing through the side of his head. Unfortunately for me, his tiny tortoise brain was not damaged and he even remained standing. Man-donkey to my right was on top of me before I could even think to shoot again, while the bird-man prepped the airlock.

My crew stood by and watched as the pirates put me upon the plank of my own ship and even gave me an hours worth of oxygen, “in honor of my balls.” I should mention these particular space pirates may be known for their vast amount of plundered wealth, but they are really feared for their love of rape. Even in an infinite universe of species to have it on with, these things still rape.

But hey, I was getting thrown out of the airlock, it could have gone worse. Slam, bang, boom, I’m blasted into space. That’s literal too, blasted into space. Sometimes if you’re lucky you’ll knock your head on the way out and die unconscious. I wasn’t so lucky.

Floating on through space, watching my only love be flown away at the command of a rape-tortoise, I was stuck to contemplate life and record this terrible story. The only real question though was will I suffocate, or will I get torn apart by tiny bits of frozen shit and garbage dumped out here from the free worlds. What a way to go.

A Story about a Storm.

“You said we would make it.”

“I was wrong. Eyes on the road.”

It was storming hard at this point. The rain slamming against the windshield as if it were intentionally trying to slow them down. Thunder rang out shaking everything to the core. Lightning followed immediately after illuminating their surroundings for a moment. Everything around them had been torn away by the storm except for a single tree in a field to their left.

“Even that old soul looks like it’s trying to find a place to hide from this monster.” The woman driving the car was still young, barely scratching her thirties. She had always maintained her mind and body. She ate nutritiously and made plenty of time for exercise. It was truly a shame that none of that would matter at this point.

“Well, it isn’t going anywhere. We need to focus on getting to the shelter.” The man in the passenger seat was even younger, in his mid-twenties. He appeared much older than her though. Before they had met he had never given a second-thought to his health or habits. He had lived only for the current moment taking in and doing whatever he pleased, whenever. Fortunately for the two of them, one of the things he had pleased to do was learn the old mapping system used in the time before.

“I am focused. We’re still on the road and we’re still moving. You’re the one with the map.” The tension of knowing what the storm brought was wearing on their nerves. At any moment the sky would open up and rain down the true wrath of the gods onto them. All of the time they had spent surviving. All of the time they had spent preparing. All of the time they had spent making sure they knew the route. All of it for nothing.

They had spent their whole lives living on edge just for the next day with the hope of one day finding a reason. Then they found each other. Not long after they found each other, they found the settlement.

“I’m doing the best I can. There isn’t an instruction book for this kind of thing. Everything I know I had to figure out through trial and error.”

Just as soon as they had settled in with each other and thought things might work out in the world. The settlement was destroyed. Bandits, greed, power struggles, nature’s revenge for what their ancestors had done. It didn’t matter. Their safety was gone. Their hope had nearly been put to death as well. Except for an old man with a map. He had been mortally wounded in the collapse of the settlement, but caught the two before he passed. The map would lead them to an old underground shelter built before the big collapse. A place where they would be able to restart the settlement with the few other survivors.

“Well, mark this one down as an error.”

All of the other survivors were gone at this point. Taken back to the land by the hostilities programmed into the other remaining people. The group had been careless in their travels in favor of speed because of the predictions of one of the others. Storms were coming. Great, powerful storms that would tear apart the face of the lands and leave nothing. The very storms that had come early and caught the two remaining survivors off guard.

The man focused more intently trying to decipher the scratchings left on the map. The intensity of the storm had at this point leveled the surroundings making it difficult to match up paper and life. How far had they come since the storm started? If only the instrumentation in the vehicle had worked it would be simple to tell. But they were lucky that the vehicle itself even worked. Even after all of that time spent working on it.

“Have you seen anything around? Signs, big rocks, some kind of landmark? I’ve lost our position. I don’t know where we are.”

“Oh wonderful, you said could do it. You said we would make it. We should have just dug in and waited it out.”

“You heard what he said, we wouldn’t have survived. Have you seen anything?” But then he saw it. The archway, or what was once the archway. “STOP!”

“Wha-?” She had been looking at him. It wasn’t her fault though. Through the storm he had only seen it seconds before it was too late. They were going too fast anyway and the vehicle never would have made the stop.

The storm had won. The storm that was no more than a few hours old had undone in moments what they had spent months preparing for. It took away everything that they had spent all of their lives working towards. The wind howled on, whistling almost with a sound of satisfaction. The rain whipping almost purposefully past the wreckage. All of the time spent preparing to beat the storm and they still hadn’t been ready.

Then the rain subsided. The clouds parted and sunlight beamed down on the remains of the crash as the wind whistled off into the distance.

To Face Myself.

To Me,

The whole world may be a conspiracy, but what can be done if one hasn’t learned the mysteries of themselves?

Having spent great time reading and gathering all the information of the control systems in place, I have neglected to read and gather the information within myself.

Who I am.

Who am I?

If you wanted to know what year the education system was hijacked and the minds of our children molded into the working machines of the industrial revolution, I could tell you that.

If you wanted to know about the systems put in place along side our debt-based economy to keep us enslaved with perpetual payments to faceless beings, I could tell you that.

If you even wanted to know about all of the theories about the ritualistic cabals that run the entertainment industry, I could tell you that.

But if you wanted to know who I am, I would be caught with my metaphorical pants around my ankles.

For years upon years, I have ran from method to procedure in coping with the pains and insecurities that I feel. And I haven’t even been around for that long, so that would be the majority of my years. Running away.

But of course you can’t run away from your own shadow. Where ever you go, it goes. Even now I’m 200 or so words into running away from the question in this post.

I know I can’t run forever. I know what I must face myself. Then why is it so hard to do?

Who am I?

Physically: I am Johnny Raymond Taylor Jr. 23 years old. Caucasian. Male. 5 foot 11 or so inches. 180 or so pounds.

Mentally: A child. Immature and insecure. Completely lacking in self-confidence and self-respect. Completely petrified of being judged by others. Devoid of social skills and incapable of forming any sort of relationship due to a deep-set fear of abandonment. A fear of abandonment stemming from the lack of belief in my own abilities. I constantly fear the failure that comes with not being able to live to the standards of others.

Of course, all of that is actually just in my head. None of it is real. The standards that I fear failing to live up to aren’t actually being set, but being imagined by myself. All of my insecurities, all of my fears, all in my head. No one is truly judging me. No one even really cares what I do.

Of course, I’m sure my friends and family care what I do in a sense. The ones that I haven’t driven away. In the sense that if I were turning to heroin or alcoholism, they would care.

But not in the sense that I fear so much. They don’t care what I do or don’t in my free time. Whether or not I’m cool. Or whether I’m smart or a fool.

They have they’re own problems and their own concerns to deal with. In fact, they’re probably too busy worrying that I’m judging them while I sit in silence, petrified with the fear of appearing a fool.

Which is why I have to write this. To put it out. Snub the flame of doubt.

To douse the flame of doubt in myself and start a fire anew with the heat of Love.

The burning passion for life that leads one along their path to true freedom.

The freedom from the ego. Freedom from negative self-judgment. Freedom to be who I am, even when it terrifies me.

But even still,

Who am I?

A young man with the world at my finger tips. A young man with a surplus of knowledge that could be put to use.

Knowledge that I must put to use.

First, to save myself. To know myself, I will write. Write everyday and reflect upon my actions.

Second, to save the Truth. The Truth that we are all free beings. Free to be who we are and free to choose our own paths.

But first, to know myself.