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Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Tales from the Moron Zone

A short story for fun...

You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension: a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into...

The Moron Zone.

This is the Jubilee North line. This train terminates at Devastation Station. Next stop will be The Moron Zone…

You awake early from a night of drinking and copious drug use. Your bones ache of abuse and neglect and your throat burns from dry heaving the night before. Your 150 dollar IKEA mattress and sheet set reeks of feces and cold sweat, and your 5 foot 4 inched friend is curled up at your feet like a shivering mutant rat.

There is dried smokeless tobacco on the corners of his mouth. His three year old sale rack J. Crew khakis rest aimlessly on the 20 dollar tennis shoes he decided to wear to bed. His grey Gap pocket tee is missing its pocket and the visible portions of his socks are stained tar black. He has the look of a grown child you do not fully understand and thus cannot fully trust. His motives are opaque at best while his eyes and actions scream of mischief and filth.

You try not to wake him as you stumble to the bathroom to deposit the waste your body so desperately needs to expel. You realize then that he is not asleep but staring at the wall. You have not time to express hollow pleasantries as you proceed down the lacquered wood stairs to the bathroom. As you fill the toilet bowl with your orange tinted urine your mind begins to wander to the night before.

Your small friend caused you to go home early, but you harbor no feelings of ill will. Amongst the crowd of degenerates and scum you call friends, only he was denied access to the bottom-shelf watering hole you attempted to enter: The only bar in the neighborhood willing to take a chance on the boy was a homosexual dive bar that has no name but a picture of a rooster in neon lights and affectionately known as “cock.” If it was not for the ten dollar cover charge (which you could not afford) a world of horrors awaited him and his backside…but possibly free drinks as well. Not willing to risk it you went home.

Your phone rings as the memories fade into oblivion like so many before. The drowsy voice on the other extends an invitation to a cozy apartment in Hells Kitchen. You had met the man on the phone the night before. He looked kind enough, with a strong chin and gentle eyes. His willingness to hit on girls distracted you from his painfully over-gelled hair, strong scent of cheap cologne and shamelessly revealing collared shirt. He seemed harmless enough, and there is nothing on your calendar for the day, so you passively accept the invitation.

You notice two friends passed out on the floor from the night before and bring them on the cross town journey. It is a chilly Saturday afternoon and his apartment is 8 avenues away but you decide to make the trip by foot due to a lack of funds. As you descend the streets across town, passing through the hustle and bustle of Time Square, to the shadowy streets of Hell’s Kitchen laden with foreboding, you get your first sense that all is not well. You approach the address you scribbled during the phone call and notice a chicken coop like structure attached to the front of the apartment building. At this moment the sneaking suspicion that something might be off intensifies, but your animalistic sense of flight has not yet peaked. You buzz his apartment and you are let in. One member of your crew does not understand the lock mechanism and becomes trapped in the chicken coop. It takes you 5 minutes to free him…

As you exit the elevator on the 3rd floor and see a “Fo Shizzle…Welcome to my Hizzle” doormat. You and your fellow traveler’s eyes meet with suspicion, but still you do not run. You step cautiously into his decrepit mineshaft of an apartment and notice the flooded bathroom and sink full of rotten food and soiled dishes, but inexplicably you remain. By the time you are ushered inside and seated on the couch you are staring perplexed at 2 full size TVs positioned directly next to each other. In this moment you begin to recognize the ghastly horror of the situation and you are paralyzed with fear. His roommate emerges from his lair displaying dual winged tattoos on his back and is addressed by some strange inbred variation on his last name by the hair gelled man. You are handed a 40 ounce bottle of Old English malt liquor and you are asked for 3 dollars in return. As you take a sip and slowly retreat into unconsciousness all becomes clear...you have arrived in the place of legends, were even the bravest fear to tread. You, my friend, are in The Moron Zone...and there is no escape.


You look around as you come out of the strange daze…it takes a few moments to collect your senses as you reemerge from oblivion. Some creature appears to be rustling around on the “borrowed” brown leather couch across from you. You still can’t see clearly and it looks like the oddly familiar sight of a large rodent convulsing…oh wait no, you say to yourself, that can’t be possible. You are right—it’s not. It is just your declining mind. You release a sigh of relief and giggle to yourself as images of Michael Flatley tap dance across your subconscious. A redneck is sitting to your left and appears to be slapping his erect penis against his stomach. At first you don’t believe your eyes, but this hillbilly appears to think everything is normal. You ask why he is doing that and request he puts it away. He mutters something that is far from English or coherent. His hair gel has faded by this time and he looks like an altered beast with an unusual chuckle and glazed eyes. Does he live here or is he a vagabond? And you remember…it is his residence you are in. It dawns upon you…you are in The Moron Zone…


The lucid realization of your location springs you into action and you attempt to ply your sweat-soaked body off the imitation leather upholstery...the gravity of the situation overwhelms you, forcing you to recline once again...horrid memories from the day past come flooding into your brain like a tidal wave of stupidity...a cackling laughter shatters the pristine silence. You recognize the awful noise coming from the quasi-human to your right. He continues to remain enthralled by his penis, stopping the playful slapping of his genitalia only to ask if he can “swipe” a slice of your half eaten pizza. You stare at him in utter disgust and silently hand him the decaying mixture of bread, tomato, and cheese. You turn apprehensively to your left to see a balding 29 year old gay gentleman telling stories of anonymous and shameless sodomy in the back allies of Alphabet City. How did he get here? Who invited this man?

For a moment you contemplate leaving and you muster the courage to rise from the couch...You walk slowly to the door as not to alert the dulled senses of the creatures around you. Suddenly a drug-crazed Insurance Broker blocks your path to the door. Do you run? No. Hide? No. You remain...for you are in The Moron Zone and it is now your home…

You shudder at the realization that there is no easy way out. Everyone is now staring at you…you hear a lizard like yelp and you process the sound “buddheeeeeee”. While you are wholly disgusted, you finally accept the fact that you will not be walking through the front door anytime soon. The sodomist pleasantly referred to as “Cara Cicatriz” places his hand gently on your shoulder and daintily asks if everything is O.K. You say “yes” but would prefer to choke him and leave…the repercussions of a hate crime prevent you from such action. After 4 deliveries from multiple drug dealers in a 5 hour window he eventually offers you some Bolivian Marching Powder and you graciously decline.

How did you end up with such a group of degenerates, you ask yourself? Before you can come to terms with the situation the hair gelled host proudly reveals that he is a member of the welfare state and collects a weekly check of 400 dollars from the US government. You are repulsed. You go to the kitchen and slice off a piece of onion. You are charged $.20. Is this really your life? You slap yourself and realize, yes, this is reality. The other hillbilly glides by elegantly with his tattooed Wings of Desire and starts referring to people as farm animals…you are trapped in The Moron Zone and your life has no meaning…


You meander back to the couch and take your place amongst this unfortunate collection of cretins. Miserable and petrified, you plant yourself in the seat near the window and as you stare out into the concrete bleakness that typifies the far west side of the island; you continue to be tortured by the staccato rhythm of a human zeppelin slapping against its abdomen. Why did you answer the phone? What would your parents think? If you could only break through the gates of the chicken coop three floors below…you would be free. But no…the alliance will not allow such a thing. A dated homosexual, an unemployed hillbilly, an undergraduate blonde cricket, “Smitty” and a balding 25 year old with a calculated comb over need you. A sense of duty wipes over you…your disdain for this decrepit genetic wasteland subsides and you accept your role. You accept your fate. The portal to The Moron Zone is closed and you have no way out. You are not an observer…it is you…

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