The [Freak] Show, vol. 2

(November Issue)



Looking at myself in the cracked mirror, I am disgusted. Peering back at me with dark brown eyes is a
man who doesn't quite understand where he stands in the greater picture. The greater picture of life. I
never really understood it. Perhaps that's why I don't know where I stand in it. Maybe I'm in the middle,
standing tall with the famous men of our time. Or maybe I'm hiding in the corner, covering my 'nads
with a wilted leaf. Who knows. Maybe my next adventure will thin the mist a bit. I just hope there are no
gorillas around.

Through a lot of careful thinking gazing blankly at my lava lamp, I came to realize that I needed to plug
that damn thing in. After studying the stuff inside the now working lava lamp, I then realized that I
needed to become part of something. Something larger than the whole of its constituents. Something
that had a purpose, something that had a long and prosperous future ahead. After the Heaven's Gate
people turned me down, I was forced to go with my second choice...


It seemed to be the only way out of the metropolitan jungle. So I headed to the mountains of Nevada,
hoping to find inner peace. What I found was a mountain goat skeleton and a big, dark cave. I decided
against meeting certain doom by venturing into the cave, and continued up the hill. When I reached the
top, I found nothing. If inner peace was a burning sensation in my lungs, then I had more peace than the
big man himself. But my sudden realization that I had just climbed a fucking mountain for nothing
brought that peace to a grinding halt. So much for inner peace. You know what, fuck inner peace. It's all
a bunch of shit anyway. So I returned to my jungle of swearing cab drivers and gun-wielding 12-yr-olds.
But once again, the pressure of surviving against the odds forced me into a trance like state; I just
couldn't take it anymore...


Hi, I'm Brother Patrick. Yes, you heard right, like a monk. Like that Friar Tuck guy or whatever his name
was in Robin Hood. Like I said, I couldn't take it anymore (bit of a drastic move, I know, but nonetheless,
it goes with the rest of the story). The only problem is, I'm not bald yet. So I'll have to wait a bit before I
can be fully accepted into the sacred society. But that suits me fine. I mean, I get all of the privileges of
being a monk (those kick-ass threads!) and I still get to party with the ladies of the house. Granted, the
nuns can be considered by some to be rather dull, but growing up in an Amish community has taught
to appreciate the finer things in life. Like when a girl shows you her ankle, that's a memorable event,
and therefore you take pictures. If only I had a camera. That's not exactly something that happens
everyday you know. It takes at least half a glass of wine to get these women frisky enough to show
some skin. But even in their drunken state, they still keep a look out for Father Samuelsson (he's
imported from Sweden). I've heard that he can really put that belt to good use. But that's a whole
different story altogether.

Anyway, as I was saying. Sometimes when the nuns have had too much to drink, we get to talking
about things. Things not so holy. Things like mud wrestling, football, and pet goldfish. One of the nuns
even said that she'd like to try mud wrestling. I promptly offered my services, but she declined for fear
of "The Belt". I shouldn't go into any gruesome details. But if you do want the juicy details, it's all in my
book: Breaking the Habit: A Nun's Guide to Soft Porn, available in book stores nowhere. Have a look,
you might even learn something. It's got everything from saucy talks with rebellious nuns to "The Secret
Behind the Strap: An In-depth Look At The Origins of S&M". But alas, I am once again ruining it for you.

Sitting in my bland room has given me lots of time to think. I keep going back to my days on the farm
with Joseph plowing the fields. Those were the days. But thinking about the past often makes me sad.
And like most sane men, I don't like to be sad. So I think of other things. Like things I like, and don't like.
One such thing is supercalifragilisticexpialadocious. I don't like that word, mainly because I don't know
how to spell it properly. I just have to guess. I don't like doing that. Guessing leads to imperfection.
Imperfection leads to pursuit of perfection. Pursuit of perfection leads to solitude. Solitude leads to you
becoming a loser. Like me. What the hell am I saying? I sound like the Yoda of the 20th century. But
hey, maybe I will turn out like Yoda. Old, wise, and talking all funny-like. And green from the shitty food
they have here. You can only stand so much gruel before you snap. My time is coming. And hell is
coming with me. You'll see.

So here I am, all cooped up in this monastery. You might think it would be a crappy place to live. But I
like it here. The stained glass windows are friendly, and I often carry out long conversations with them,
discussing the details of politics and other such world problems. Heated arguments often arise from
the difference in opinion of human and silicate. I think the others are disturbed by me shouting at the
window, but I don't care. I win the arguments, that's all that matters. Hell, what do the windows know,
they're just a bunch of glass chunks that make cool colours on the floor. They claim to see everything,
being all high and mighty in the wall like that. But I have beaten them, and I could again. I've even found
ways to keep away from their icy eyes. I'm sure the others have, too. It's just a matter of time before
no-one walks these halls. The windows will fade, staring monotonously at the empty corridor, waiting
for a conversation or a chord from the dusty piano in the corner. The piano no-one knows how to play.

Perhaps I should clear something up for you. I'm not really here for the rest of my life. You see, this is
sort of an "intern monk" thing, minus the cigars. I'm only staying here until after the apocalypse. It's safe
here. No-one wants to hurt innocent monks (when was the last time a monk did something to make
you worse off?) Little do they know that monks across the globe have a secret communications
system that allows monks in Tibet to talk to ones in northern France. But only the highest monks of
each complex are allowed access to this immense system. One day, I hope to see this sacred hall.
Stories float about, telling of flashing lights and strange noises. Stories of men talking to see-thru men,
seemingly made of light. Stories of large boxes covered in buttons and gauges. Technology is rare in
these parts, if not unheard of. These stories suggest technological advances way beyond those of our
time. I aim to find out for myself. Wish me luck. See you on the other side.

I am haunted at nights by demons that take me to places never seen by the human eye. Places that
even I could not dream up. Places where time runs backward and the third dimension is for sissies.
The demons explain the future of the world to me, but in a language that I can not even begin to
understand. I guess I am their messenger for earth. I think they picked the wrong guy. The guy who
talks to stained glass. What the hell were they thinking. It's kinda like the aliens that visit our pitiful little
planet. Why do they always pick the drunken farmer or the asylum escapee? I guess it's just another
mystery of the universe. One that will never be solved. Unless those damn demons start to speak
fucking english.